a Road lEss traveleD
by 221b Baker Street
Summary: In physics, there are things that are called Quantum Events, small, seemingly insignificant events that change things on a grand scale, and in theory, creating multiple universes or timelines as repercussions. This is one of those stories...
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: The boldface and italics are intentional, a form of concrete poetry that serves to augment the story. Apologies if it seems distracting, but once you've finished, you'll understand...=)_

**a **_**R**_**oad lEss travele**_**D**_

_**Chapter 1:**_

_99 Red Balloons_

One thing Patrick Jane had observed very early on in his life was the fact that it was very difficult to keep a helium-filled balloon from floating into the sky using only the palm of one's hand.

Helium, being lighter than air, will find any imperfection, any crack, any bump or tremor to move its molecules upwards towards lesser densities, taking the latex with it. In just the same way, an ice cube held underwater will rise once **re**lease**d**. It was simple physics, he'd always **re**ckone**d**, with an amusing twist of anatomy thrown in for good measure.

Yep, helium-filled balloons were notoriously hard to keep down. Especially the **red **ones.

Now, this was not a fact he sha**red **frequently with people, given the rather odd, mundane nature of the observation, but Patrick Jane was an observant fellow, and this was simply one of the many, many, many things he had obse**r**v**ed** in his life. Most of those things were odd, or mundane and on the surface, useless, having meaning only for him as he routinely pieced together the th**re**a**d**s of people's lives using observations such as this. And therefore, like most of them, he concluded that this peculiar observation was meant for him, and him alone. Sharing would mean explaining, and sometimes explaining was simply too tedious, demanded far too much will and mental energy, and he was, after all, a firm believer in the conservation of energy.

_**pop**_

Another thing he had obse**r**v**ed** was the fact that a popping balloon sounded very much like a gunshot.

_**bang bang bang**_

His **heart** had stopped cold at that moment. Even once he heard her voice, heard her assure him that she was okay, he wasn't entirely certain that it had sta**r**t**ed** up again. Wasn't certain it ever would. And that had set the balloon rocking.

Normally, with a d**re**a**d **sense of calm and unpa**r**allel**ed** focus, he could keep that balloon under his palm for hours. Days, weeks, months, even years as the case may be. He was skilled in that **re**gar**d**, a master of biomechanics. Hell, he could probably juggle with the other hand, and jump on one foot while keeping that balloon down.

_Interesting, _he thought. The juggling, he'd also been doing for years.

But there were always imperfections. Imperfections that th**re**atene**d** to release that balloon, send it rolling out from under his hand and sailing up into the sky, quite likely never to return. Most balloons had a tether, a string keeping it in the hand and therefore, cont**r**oll**ed**. But _his _string had been snapped long ago. It had only been a serious act of the will to keep the balloon balanced and under control since then.

So, first there had been the popping.

And then there had been the man.

The man with** red** hair and **red **glasses. A newspaper opened to a huge Clearance sale, a bold **slash** of **red** against the black and white print. A **devil** without horns. A **monster **in a politician's suit.

The balloon had grown very wobbly then. It wanted to be **re**lease**d**, to be sent soaring up, up, up to the heavens and so it had **r**ock**ed** against the imperfections in his palm, the minute tremor of fatigue, the slight twitch of indecision. But he had held it down until the _**bang bang bang**_ of his own, a perfect counterpoint to the music started so long ago. The c**r**esc**e**n**d**o to the symphony of his miserable life.

And still, to his great surprise, he held the balloon down.

He'd sat, had tea, surrende**red** to the officers who had been too te**r**rifi**ed **to shoot. He'd allowed them to cuff him, frisk him, take him 'downtown.' He didn't know where exactly, nor did he care. It was all about the balloon now. Patrick Jane and his damned **red **balloon.

She said she'd been injur**ed **but would be fine. He believed her. She wouldn't lie about that. But neither would she be able to come, to bail him out, to chew him out, tear a strip off him. He needed her punishments. It was the only way he had stayed sane these long years. Teresa Lisbon and her moral compass. She had her own balloons, but those she kept hidden in a drawer in her desk. Or under her bed. She was good at hiding. Almost as good as he.

He was sitting now in an interrogation room somewhere. Not the CBI. Downtown. Once they had found his consultant's badge, they had ceased and desisted. Good thing. He wasn't sure he could speak. His eyes were dry and dull, and he wasn't certain if he could even blink. He wished they would bring him some tea. Tea healed things.

The door opened again, as it had many, many times. Familiar shapes moved into his peripheral vision, a large brown shape and a taller grey one, but for some reason, he could not focus. The balloon was taking up all of his reserves. He should just let it go, he knew, but something was preventing him. Something about the plan, something the **red-**haired man had said, and it bothe**red** him to no end.

"Patrick?"

It was a familiar voice, low and gravelly and thick like mud. He remembe**red** a little white dog and Hummel figurines and a very old bottle of Scotch.

"Patrick, can you hear me?"

He nodded. At least, that's what he thought he did. He couldn't be sure. He was so very tir**ed.**

The large shape moved in, a face like a peeled potato looked into his. The smell of dog shampoo, coffee and tictacs. He shive**red, **and it dawned on him that he was very cold.

The face moved away.

"His pupils are dilated," said the large shape to the taller one. "I think he's in shock.

"You don't think he's faking it?" said the tall grey shape. A pleasant voice in a medium timbre, cont**r**oll**ed** and conciliatory, like a politician. "He could be faking it."

The large shape sighed, a deep rumbling sound that **r**attl**ed** the floorboards. "Hm. Possible. He is a master at biomechanical feedback."

_Yes, you simpletons,_ thought Patrick. _That's why I still have the damned balloon. Buffoons, the lot of you._

The large shape pulled up a chair. The legs made scratching sounds on the floor. The seat c**r**eak**ed** under a great weight.

"Patrick, can you look at me?"

He was cold and ti**red** and Teresa Lisbon was inju**red **but she would be fine. He wanted to lie down in a bed of sea grass by the ocean and close his eyes to the world. Instead, all he could see was gray floor and gray walls and a big ugly brown suit.

"Patrick? Please?"

He did as he was asked. It was only polite, and etiquette still matte**red**. He was trying so very hard.

"Thank you, Patrick. How are you feeling?"

He blinked, not understanding the question. At least his eyes worked.

"Patrick, you've done a very bad thing. Do you understand this?"

He nodded, understanding that.

"Can you tell me why you did this bad thing?"

He swallowed. His mouth tasted like metal. "I had to," he said in a quiet voice.

"You had to," **r**epeat**ed** the brown potato man. "Alright, Patrick, why did you have to?"

He frowned. _Of course._ They had no idea. He hadn't told anyone, after all. Except of course, Teresa Lisbon, but she was inju**red** somewhere and going to be fine. It made perfect sense.

"Patrick?"

"**Red** John…" he managed to say.

"What about **Red **John?"

_Something that the man had said…_

"Patrick? What about **Red** John?"

_Something about the plan…_

"He's insane," said the gray politician. "I told you that earlier. He said we were going to meet Hightower, that she was going to turn herself in—"

"We have Hightower now," said the brown potato man. "She was with Agent Lisbon under CBI guard. There's been a... situation."

"Yes, yes, I know that, J.J. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Jane has been using her as bait in some whack-a-mamie plot of his, involving hotel rooms and suspects and a **Red** John conspiracy. He drove me to that shopping mall. We were supposed to meet her there but then he began babbling about rope and **Red **John and I tried to convince him to get some help. He asked me point blank if I had killed Todd Johnson! Can you believe that, JJ? Point blank_! Me?_ A killer? How could he even suggest something like that…"

The monologue had suddenly pete**red **out on an odd note, so the potato man looked up. The gray man had sagged, ran a hand across his face. "God, J.J, he was carrying a gun. He had it in his pocket the whole time. What if he didn't believe me? What if he snapped then? He could have shot _me_ instead of those windows..."

The potato man blinked slowly.

"He could have _killed_ me, J.J. He asked me if I thought he was crazy and then said that maybe he was. I was having coffee with a crazy man and his gun. I'm lucky to be breathing, JJ. Damn. I am _so_ lucky. I need to call home. I need to talk to my wife. I need to talk to my therapist…"

The gray suit slipped out the door and closed it behind him.

The potato man sighed again and tu**r**n**ed **back to Patrick Jane.

He sta**red** at him for a long time.

"I don't know what to make of this, Patrick," he said after a while. "Clearly, you are not in complete control of your faculties…"

"I am," said Patrick Jane.

"So you say. But then again, you lie. You've lied to me ever since we met. In fact, you lied about Madeleine Hightower kidnapping you and crashing my car and finally, her whereabouts. You've lied about all of these things, haven't you?"

He nodded. He was very cold.

"She was never in that hotel room, was she?"

He shook his head. He was very ti**red**.

"It was all one of your 'brilliant plans', wasn't it Patrick? For some reason, you thought Madeleine Hightower was being f**r**am**ed **for Todd Johnson's murder, so you helped her escape. Didn't you, Patrick?"

He nodded. For some reason, he felt heavy, as if there were a heavy blanket d**r**ap**ed **across his shoulders. It was pushing him into the floor.

"I know that, somehow, you think there is a **Red **John connection here. A **Red** John connection to Todd Johnson. A connection that I am unaware of. Is that correct?"

He nodded. The balloon squeaked under his palm. He t**r**i**ed** desperately to keep it quiet.

"A connection you have never disclosed."

_Something about the plan…_

"Why would you not disclose this, Patrick?"

It was like swimming in the ocean. The waves kept hitting harder and higher.

The potato man sta**red** at him a while longer.

Sat back in his chair.

Sighed.

"The names. The names on my list. They were your suspects as well, weren't they, Patrick? That's why you had Donny Culpepper **break** into my house."

He nodded. There was nothing else to do now.

"So that would mean that those four people were, in your mind, accomplices of **Red **John somehow. Either Brenda Shettrick, Oscar Ardiles, Craig O'Laughlin or… Director Bertram."

"Or you, " said Jane in a small voice.

"Of course," said the potato man. "Or me." He clea**red** his throat, looked at his thick hands, folded them across the table. "You know that Agent O'Laughlin is dead, don't you, Patrick?"

He nodded.

"That Agent Lisbon has been taken to Sutter General for emergency surgery?"

He nodded.

"And that you are going to be cha**r**g**ed** with discharging an unregiste**red** weapon in a public place?"

He blinked. Frowned. Blinked again.

"Patrick, why did you discharge an unregiste**red **weapon in a public place?"

"I…What?"

The balloon was laughing now, mocking him, trying desperately to slip out from under his grip.

"Patrick?"

"I…"

He needed to stop it. He needed the control.

"I didn't…"

"Yes, Patrick. You did." The big man shifted his weight. "In fact, we have it on video. After Director Bertram left, you spoke on your phone, then you changed tables, stood, and fi**red **a weapon from your pocket into the crowd."

The balloon slipped. He made a grab for it. Caught it by the little latex knot in the bottom.

He sta**red **at it a moment. It looked like it was filling up with **blood**.

He pushed his fists deeply in his pockets.

"No," he said evenly. "I** shot** **Red **John. I **shot** him three times. He said my daughter smelled of **Strawberries** and Cream. It was her favourite shampoo. And I **shot** him three times in the chest and watched him **die**."

The potato man blinked slowly.

"Would you care to rephrase that, Patrick? I'm not certain I've understood what you are saying."

"I **shot **and **killed **a man whom I will prove to be **Red** John in a shopping mall this afternoon."

"No, Patrick. You did not."

"Yes, JJ. Yes, I did."

"We have witnesses to the contrary."

He clenched his jaw. "They're lying."

"And we have that video from mall security."

"It has been docto**red."**

"There is no **body**, Patrick. You **shot **out two store windows and a fake palm, but there is no **body**."

"His people. **Red **John's people. They cleaned up after him."

"Why would someone do that, Patrick? Why would anyone do anything like this?"

"**Red** John has people everywhere. He can do anything. He can—"

He stopped cold, like a popping balloon. Like the sound of a silenced Glock.

"Patrick?"

Something the man had said…

_The sound of the silencer *pop*_

"Patrick?"

_When O'Laughlin told me of your little trap, I was so happy… **bang**_

"Please talk to me, Patrick. I can't help you unless you talk to me…"

_The perfect opportunity to teach you one last lesson in humility…**bang bang**_

"Patrick, please."

_But you p__**r**__evail__**ed**__ for once. **bang bang bang**_

The potato man pushes the chair back and stands, sending a long gaze down before pulling out his cellphone.

_Brava. Sincerely. Brava._

_**pop**_

"This is LaRoche. I need the department psychiatrist down here immediately. Yes, yes. For him. Yes, I'll wait here, Thank you."

The world has suddenly shifted, and he understands. Understands perfectly how he has made it to this place. He has made a huge miscalculation and because of it, he will lose. He will lose it all.

_**Red**__ John was never there_

"What was that, Patrick?"

He realizes that he has just spoken out loud. Interesting that he never noticed.

"**Red** John was never there," he says again, pronouncing every syllable.

The potato man turns back to the table. "That's right, Patrick. **Red** John was never there. But you saw him, didn't you?" His face is sad, his voice is gentle. This man is big and has a little dog.

"Yes. I saw him. I spoke to him." And Jane looks up, nodding, blue eyes glittering and bright. "I thought it was Bertram. I set the **trap** with Bertram as the bait. **Red** John would have shown up because Bertram had called him. But the assassin needed the rope to climb down one floor, meaning it was O'Laughlin. Not Bertram. Not Bertram at all. Bertram wasn't **Red **John's man. So he wouldn't have called **Red** John, would he? He couldn't."

The potato man frowns, not understanding the winding trail of thought, the stream of consciousness from this admittedly broken man.

It breaks his **heart.**

"So he wouldn't have been there, would he? **Red **John would have no reason to go to the mall if Bertram wasn't his man. I completely missed that. I wasn't paying attention. And then I heard the gunshot – the first one – I thought Teresa— I thought—"

He pauses, not sure what is happening with the balloon. He can't feel it anymore. It has slipped from under his fingers.

"Yes, Patrick? You thought something bad had happened to Agent Lisbon?"

"Her name is Teresa. It means 'late summer.'"

"Yes."

"She was going to be a b**r**id**e**smai**d**. Did you know that, JJ?"

"No. Patrick. That is something I did not know."

"She was wearing the dress today. It was very **pink** and very pretty."

"I'm sure it was."

"In fact, she looked beautiful. Really…quite beautiful."

The potato face smiles at him. It actually looks kind.

"She's a beautiful woman," he says softly. Looks down at his hands. "I wish she were here."

"She is going to be fine, Patrick."

"Oh yes, I know. I'm simply being selfish, that's all." He smiles, shrugs. "I need her."

"You make a good team."

"I got her **shot**."

"Lisbon is a state Agent. She puts her own life on the line."

"You sound like her. They train you to speak like that, yeh?"

"Hm. Yes."

"I thought I was two steps ahead. I wanted to win, so very badly."

He begins to find it difficult to breathe.

"Patrick, perhaps we shouldn't—"

The weight is crushing his chest. "Just once. I wanted to win. I wanted to **Prevail**. I wanted to show him. Just once…"

"Patrick. You should stop now. This is not helpful."

"I'm a selfish bastard, JJ. But you know that."

The potato man sits down. His face is conce**r**n**ed**.

"We all have our ghosts, Patrick. Yours are simply…louder…than others…"

"I just wanted to win. I always want to win. I need to win. It's one of my **flaws."**

"You did win, Patrick. A very **bad** man is **dead**. He may very well have ties to your **Red** John—"

Jane begins to smile. The balloon rises from the floor, unheld, free. It is bobbing in front of his face now. It is indeed filled with **blood,** and this time, there is a **smiley face **on it.

"Oh yes, JJ. Everyone has ties to **Red** John. I know that now. He wins. I lose. I need to let it go."

"Yes, Patrick. This quest for revenge, you do need to let it go."

"Oh no," he says and his smile is both brilliant and bright. "Not that. Never that. My balloon."

"Your…_balloon?"_

"Yes. Lisbon's not here and I can't hold it anymore. I need to let it go."

And he does. And suddenly the room is filled with balloons, as 99 **Red** Balloons float up, up, up into the sky, taking the roof and Patrick Jane, with them.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**a **_**R**_**oad lEss travel**_**eD**_

_**Chapter 2: true colours**_

_1 month later_

They were in the middle of a heat wave.

She pulled the SUV into the treed parking lot and sat for a long moment, feeling the tiny hairs rise as the cold air blew across her skin.

Her left hand ached. It did that frequently now. Phantom pain, the surgeon had said. A consequence of the bullet that had violated her body. There was no nerve damage, that much he had also said. She was healing perfectly. She had been lucky. She wasn't so sure. Some wounds just went too deep.

With a deep breath, she stepped out of the vehicle and the heat of the Sacramento summer dropped on her like a blanket. She was a Chicago girl. She'd never get used to this heat. And the sun was intense – she had to shade her eyes to get a look at the large building, set a great distance from the parking lot. Set a great distance, in fact, from anywhere.

_St. Sebastian's Psychiatric Hospital,_ 33 miles outside town.

Affiliated with the AG's office, it was a place for assessment and acute care, not the kind of place most inmates would see in their lifetimes. You had to be rich, well-connected or politically important to score a bed here. It was brick and stucco with ornamental steel grillwork, and it looked strong, stable and calm. The grounds were manicured and clean, at least, what you could see beyond the high stone fence. Even with the razor-wire and security cameras, it still smacked of professionalism and order. Exactly what you might hope from a high-end psychiatric facility. She'd seen many seedy ones in her day. This, this was nice.

She pulled open the double glass doors and a blast of cold air welcomed her into the front lobby. It was obviously a clean place, smelled of antiseptic, pine and coffee. The walls were painted lavender and yellow, with generic paintings of flowers and landscapes and water. There were flowers in ceramic vases on wood tables. Very nice, very professional. It made her sad immediately and for a fleeting moment, she wished she hadn't come.

A porcelain-skinned woman eyed her as she approached.

"Hello," she said, her voice as cold as the air conditioning. "May I help you?"

"Uh, Teresa Lisbon to see Patrick Jane?"

Her voice went up at the end, like a question, and she cursed her lack of nerve. She never used to be like this. She hated how this place made her feel.

"One moment…" Penciled eyebrows drew inwards as the woman bent to her keyboard. It took only a moment.

"I'm sorry. He's not allowed visitors at this time."

"Oh?" She sounded like a little girl. "Why?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Only law enforcement officers are allowed."

"I'm his boss. Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon, CBI." Appeasing. Congenial. Not at all her voice. Couldn't make it authoritative if she tried.

The woman stared at her for a long moment. Normally, Lisbon would have felt her hackles go up. But they didn't. She was numb.

"Do you have some form of identification?"

"Um, yes ma'am." As she shuffled through her pockets, she wondered how this had happened to her, to be anxiously jumping through hoops for a stiff-necked ward -matron. This would never have happened a month ago.

Life was so very different now.

The woman swiped the card through a scanner, tapped the keyboard again with a long, overly manicured nail. Held the card up to study first the photo, and then her face. All this to further emphasize the alpha female role and make her a compliant and subservient subject.

_Damn Patrick Jane,_ she fumed. She couldn't even walk into a hospital without overanalyzing things now. Everything had an angle, everyone had a motive. He had changed the rules forever and she didn't know how to play.

After a long, infuriating moment, the woman passed her badge back.

"Room 1854, Ward C. Be sure to check in with the nursing desk before you go in. There are some security precautions."

"Sure."

"And I'll take your weapon now, Agent Lisbon."

"Oh, yeah. Sure, um… here…" and just like that, she handed her Glock over to the woman with the manicured nails and face like a porcelain doll. The woman smiled and Lisbon smiled back, hating herself for it.

With a deep breath, she turned and headed down the lavender hallway toward Ward C.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

It was a glorified prison, that much was clear. The halls were gated, the doors metal and required buzzers for admittance. The 'nurses' were very large men wearing scrubs and carrying tasers. ID badges were swiped for everything. She was sure if you listened hard enough, you would hear wailing and the rattling of chains.

And here, down this new hallway painted psychologically-soothing blue , it smelled of formaldehyde and bleach.

She did not want to be here. She did not want to be here. She did not want to be here.

"Agent Lisbon," came a voice from the nursing station and she looked up to see a young man heading toward her, carrying a clipboard. He held out his hand. "Terry Marshall. I heard you might be coming…"

She took his hand, shook it quickly, slid her hands into her back pockets. "Yeah, today was my first day back, so I figured…"

"How's your shoulder?"

She frowned. "How…did you know?"

"It's in the file."

"Oh." She nodded, pouted, nodded some more. "Are you a doctor?"

"Me? Nah, just a ward nurse. Dr. Silverston isn't in at the moment. Do you want me to page him?"

"Oh no…no, that's fine. That's…that's good…"

More nodding, more pouting. She dug her hands deeper still.

He smiled patiently.

"So, um, how is he?"

"Quiet. Very quiet. Is he usually quiet?"

She let out a laugh and it caused other large men with tasers to look at her. She decided to compose herself quickly.

"Um, no," she admitted, rocking back a little on her heels as she fought back the smirk. "No, 'quiet' is not a word I would usually use to describe him."

"Oh. Well… Do you want to see for yourself?"

The question.

The question that had plagued her for almost 29 days, since she'd awoken in a hospital ward after they had removed a bullet from her shoulder. It had been the second question on her lips, right after 'did we get him?" Neither had been the answer she had hoped for.

Did she want to see Patrick Jane?

She must have looked like a deer in the headlights, for the young man reached forward to touch her arm.

"You don't have to, Agent Lisbon. It's alright," he said. "I'll just tell him you were by."

Her fingers were digging holes in her pockets.

"Yeah, sure. That would be great." She nodded, sniffed, looked at the floor, hating herself. "Great…"

"Okay…" He smiled at her. "See you again…"

_His_ voice went up now. He was asking the question.

"Yeah. Okay. See you too…"

She turned her back on the blue walls of Ward C, saw the paintings of beaches, sailboats, baskets and puppies. Breathed deep the smell of formaldehyde and bleach. Took a step toward the lavender corridor and the porcelain woman, and suddenly swung back around.

"No," she said firmly, brushing a tear from her eye, setting her jaw. "Now. I'd like to see him now, if that's allowed."

"Yeah, sure. For you, that's allowed. C'mon. This way…" And with one hand still out to steady her, Terry Marshall led her down the corridor towards Room 1854.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

It wasn't a long way, but the corridor had changed colour yet again, this time a watery blue-green. It was a colour that reminded her of her grandmother's bedroom and she instantly felt safe and warm, and she marveled at the psychology of colour and how it was used to great effect. If only they could exchange the hospital smells for those of apple pie and cookies, then they'd really be onto something.

Marshall paused in front of a white door. Room 18.5.4.

"Well, we're here. I'll let you go in, but I'll be right here. Front desk took your piece, right?"

"Why? Is he violent?"

"God, no," Marshall laughed. "Just a precaution. He's not allowed anything in there."

"Why?"

The young man hesitated. "Just a precaution. Anyway, like I said, he's pretty quiet. But I'll be right here, just in case."

_Just in case._

As he reached for his ID card, she frowned to herself. There had been times when _she_ had been the only person who could 'handle' Patrick Jane. She had made her reputation on nothing less. He would get crazy, go off on wild tangents, take huge risks and play with enormous stakes, but she could 'handle' him. At least three Regional Directors had trusted her on this, had repeatedly asked if the strain of 'handling' him was too much, and when the crap was flying and chaos was looming, they looked to her and she talked the talk like a pro. But if she were honest, she had never been able to 'handle' him. He had always handled himself, did whatever the hell he wanted, and then sold it to her to sell to others. It had been a dangerous game, but somehow, it had worked for them.

Here, at _St. Sebastian's Psychiatric Hospital,_ she needed a twenty-something kid, just in case.

He slid his badge through the metal slot and the door buzzed as it clicked open, and he stepped aside to let her pass. She swallowed, smiled, and steeled herself against the sight.

It was white.

All white, just like something out of a bad B-movie. And padded too. She had never really believed that padded rooms where actually padded, but it looked like white quilting stitched to the walls. She had imagined red faces drawn in blood, she had imagined cuffs and cots, bedside tables laden with pills and misery, Jack Nicholson over the Cuckoo's nest and the Shining, all rolled into one.

Instead, there was white. Nothing but white.

There was no furniture in the room. Nothing. No bed, no sink, no desk, no chair. Just a mattress on the floor and a man sitting beside it, dressed in white.

The door clicked shut behind her.

She stood for a moment, trying desperately to quiet the thudding of her heart. Controlled her breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth.

He hadn't looked up.

"Hey," she said finally, throwing a smile in there for good measure.

He said nothing. Quiet, like Marshall had said.

"So…Um…I'm back at work now…"

Nothing. Nothing to indicate he had even noticed she was there. He sat with his back to the wall, knees up, in a loose white cotton T and baggy white scrub pants. His feet were bare, and his hair was too long and he had a good week's worth of scruff going on. Not a good sign, but then again, if they didn't allow him a chair, they likely wouldn't allow him a razor.

"Rigsby says hi. And Cho too. He was interim boss again while I was off." She smiled. "I think he's getting used to it…"

No response. She looked behind her, to the white door with a tiny window. Narrowed her green eyes, seeing long scratches in the enamel. She swallowed and turned back into the room.

He looked so lost, just sitting there like that. She knew this was a place he'd been before, this world of white and madness, and it made her wish she'd paid more attention, asked more questions, found out more about what had taken him there, and subsequently, what had pulled him out. Sophie Miller would know. Sophie Miller, devil in a lab coat, tall cool bleached blonde beauty who had been his doctor. That Sophie Miller would know what to do, what to say, but this was her first visit. She'd be damned if she called Sophie so soon.

Maybe Jane would be damned if she didn't.

She strolled into the room, feeling the floor give a little under her shoes. Turned and slid her back down the wall to sit next to him, draped her arms across her knees. She'd never seen him like this, without his armor of vest and jacket, without those butt-ugly brown shoes he always wore. He looked so…normal without his prep-school uniform, like he could have been anyone's husband or dad, not the icon he had created for himself, an icon that did not sleep, breathe or dream. No, here, now, he was just a man.

She let her eyes roam his face, tracing the lines that had seemed to have deepened since she'd last seem him. It was the lack of animation, she knew it, that aged him. The absence of smile, the dullness of the eyes usually so quick and bright. He was like an empty room, and as he sat here, in this empty room, it caused her heart to break once again. It did that on a regular basis. She figured at some point, she might get used to it.

"So, we have a case," she began. "LaRoche said I needed to handle it. He thinks I can't do the job without you, anymore." She hmphed as if insulted. "But he'll see. I can do it. It just takes a little longer, that's all."

She grinned at him. "At least, fewer laws get broken…"

No response.

"Bertram's pissed off at you. I mean, _really_, pissed off. He wants you out of the Bureau so bad. He thinks you played him, which, I suppose you did. That was smooth. I wish I could've seen it. I wish I had been there. I wish…"

Her face fell and her conversation stalled. She was in an air-conditioned hospital, but a weight fell across her again, just like the damned heat. She sighed, looked down at his hands. Usually always moving, fingers dancing, tapping out rhythms and codes and such, they hung limp between his knees. There was dirt under his fingernails, and she felt a flash of anger. They needed to help him here, they needed to keep him clean. He was fastidious with hygiene, except of course, when he wasn't. She had never seen dirt under his nails before, not even when they had been crawling around in forests and gold mines and gardens. Never. Something made her look closer before the cop in her told her to stop.

It wasn't dirt under his nails. It was blood.

Sighing, she looked away, her hair sweeping across her shoulder.

She wanted to hit him.

In fact, she always wanted to hit him, but now, sitting here as they were, she wanted to hit him, to hurt him, to wake him up from under this heavy blanket of his own. At least if he was awake, he could fight, and he would need all his fabled fighting skills to survive what was surely coming down if and when he did come round. Right now, he was hiding, and that made her angry more than anything else. He was a fighter to the core, but he was hiding, unwilling to face the demons that were taunting him.

"You're a coward, you know that? A small, selfish, hiding coward, that's what you are."

She had surprised herself by saying it out loud, but she didn't care anymore. If he didn't care, why should she?

Naturally, there was no response.

"You know what else? You're lazy." She nodded for emphasis. "That's right. You heard me. Lazy. Here I am. I took a bullet from Craig O'Laughlin's piece, was in hospital for seven days, and look, I'm back at work. First day, today. What about you? When you coming back?"

Nothing.

"Yep. Just like I figured. Lazy. Lazy selfish son of a bitch. That's you, Jane. That's you."

Not even a twitch.

"How could you do this? How could you? I hate you so much right now, you know that? I really, really hate you. I hate how you can do this, make this plan, keep these secrets, string us along, pull it all out, be so goddamn right and smart and brilliant and then what? Just suddenly snap? Just like that? How dare you, Jane? How dare you that... to me... to yourself...how dare you... how dare you..."

She released a deep breath, and her chest shuddered as it came out. In fact, her whole body began to shudder, and she fought it so hard as her throat constricted and her eyes stung and finally, the tears came and she let them, dropping her face into her hands as if no one could see. She wept for a long time, not just for him but for herself, for her parents, for the misery and struggle of life and pain and injustice and death until she was finally all cried out and weak from it. With a deep breath, she leaned back, pressing her dark head back into the soft wall and staring up at the white ceiling for a long long time.

She couldn't even hear him breathing.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, for her throat was still tight. "I didn't mean any of that. I don't hate you. I'm sorry... so, so sorry..."

She realized she wasn't talking to him anymore, but to herself. She was as lost as he, and therefore, not helpful. "You do what you need to do, Jane. Take all the time you need. It's okay. It's alright. But we do need you. We need you back. I…"

She breathed through it, like childbirth._ "I_…need you. LaRoche is right. I can't do this alone. I need you there. I need your ideas, your insights, your stupid idiotic brilliant 'cunning plans'. I just… I need you…"

She smiled, the tears drying tracks across her cheeks, tugging into the dimple that was so pronounced. "Okay? You got that? You do what you need to do, and I'll do what I can do. We'll sort this mess out and hopefully, be back in the bullpen by September. Sound like a plan?"

There was no response.

So she sighed, leaned in and, still smiling, kissed him on the forehead. It was a soft kiss, and she let her lips linger a moment on his skin. He tasted good and she wondered why she had never done this before.

"Well, I'd better go," she said, and pushed herself to her feet. She felt strange, light and detached, altered somehow, and her feet fairly floated to the door. She allowed herself one last look however, and was pleasantly surprised that the sight of him, sitting motionless, unresponsive and white, didn't bother her so much as it did before.

"See you tomorrow, okay?"

Nothing.

So she turned, rapped on the door, and left the white room and it's pale occupant, and entered the colours of the hallways.

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

**a **_**R**_**oad l**_**E**_**ss travele**_**D**_

_**Chapter 3: heat wave**_

It was twilight when they pulled up to the side door of the _Stephan-Martin Lifeways Center_ and the sun was sending long shadows into the streets. It was fertility clinic in the heart of downtown Sacramento, with taller buildings towering above it on either side. Even now, at this evening hour, the traffic was still heavy and the temperatures were scorching.

A black and white cruiser was already there, and an officer waved them into the alleyway that separated the buildings. His partner was setting up the yellow tape, and Rigsby held it up for Lisbon and Cho to duck under.

Even with its choice locale, an alley was still an alley, and the green bags that lined the foundations reeked to high heaven. There were BFI bins, likely needing a dump and tired clumps of grass growing between the boxes, bags and bottles scattered there. In a heat wave, every sense was exacerbated, and Lisbon knew this smell would linger in her nostrils for days.

The officer waved them over towards the back wall of the clinic, and their steps slowed as they saw it. Rigsby put his hands on his hips.

"Whoa," he groaned. "Really didn't want to see another one of these for awhile."

"For _ever_," grunted Cho.

Lisbon ground her molars.

It was a smiley face. A smiley face painted in what appeared to be blood, with long red ribbons baking in the evening sun.

Lisbon turned to the officer. "Where's the body?"

"No body, ma'am. Just this."

She exchanged glances with her team.

"That's a first," said Rigsby.

"No," said Cho. "Twice before. Rosalind Harker-"

"Right," echoed Lisbon. "And Christina Frye."

"Hm," said Rigsby. "Red John's blind girlfriend, and Jane's psychic girlfriend."

"She wasn't his girlfriend," grumbled Lisbon as she studied the face.

"The blind girl? I thought Jane said—"

"No, Frye. Frye wasn't Jane's girlfriend."

"Uuhh…"

"Well, she wasn't, got that?"

Rigsby and Cho exchanged glances but said nothing.

She tilted her head, pouted, as she studied the face. "Is there something wrong with this picture?"

"No body," offered Rigsby with a grin.

_"Other_ than that," she growled, green eyes flashing.

"The smiley face," said Cho. "It's not smiling."

They all turned to look now, and sure enough, the trademark face painted in human blood was... frowning.

"That's weird," she grumbled.

"That's creepy," said Cho.

"That's another first," mumbled Rigsby.

"Okay, so this has got to be a coincidence." Lisbon straightened, tossing her hair for emphasis. "This might even be spray paint for all we know."

"A random act of graffiti?" asked Rigsby, brows raised. "That would be a coincidence for someone just to suddenly decide to spray a red frowny face…"

"Maybe it's a copycat," offered Cho.

"Right," said Lisbon. "It could be anything. But just in case, maybe look around a little. See if either of you two can find a body. Think like Jane."

"What?" grinned Rigsby. "Crazy?"

Her eyes were Glocks, and they emptied both barrels into his face. "Look for ants, listen for flies. Follow your nose. Go_. Go!"_

They went.

She turned back to the officer. "Have you searched the area?"

"Yes ma'am, as much as we could. We called it in ASAP. Forensics is on its way now."

"Good. If it is Red John, a body will show up sometime. And if it's not, Forensics will let us know."

"Yes, ma'am."

Her phone rang. It was LaRoche.

"Sir."

"Agent Lisbon, where are you right now?"

She frowned, imagining the big man sitting at his desk in a corner office devoid of personality. "At a crime scene, sir. Red John signature."

There was silence for a long moment. "And the victim?"

"None, sir."

Silence again. The man was a vice. Where Jane was a steel trap, J.J. LaRoche was a long, slow, crippling vice.

"None, Agent Lisbon?"

"No sir. At least, none found sir."

"Hm. I need to speak with you immediately, Agent Lisbon."

She glanced around to make sure Cho and Rigsby were far away. "You _are _speaking with me now, sir."

"Amusing, Agent Lisbon. In person, please."

"Yes sir. I'll head back now, sir."

"Thank you," the gravelly voice rumbled and the line went dead.

She folded her phone and cast one long last look at the bloody face, its gruesome frown and sad, sad eyes.

Turned her back, and left the scene.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

"What do you think it means, Agent Lisbon?"

Deputy Director JJ LaRoche sat behind his desk like a garden gnome, round and rocky and almost a part of his environment. She couldn't imagine him anywhere else. Couldn't imagine a wife, children, a home. He was a classic Joe Friday cop, drab suits and bulldog persona. A happy house and white picket fence somehow didn't seemed to fit.

Jane had liked him though, and that meant something, so she sat, waiting for him to finish this melodrama and get on with it. She took a deep breath.

"I don't know, sir. Jane was our Red John specialist." She could see LaRoche flinch, but that made her press on all the more. "He could tell by one look whether it was a copycat or the real thing. He was freaky that way, actually."

"Hmm…"

She leaned forward. Ever since her shooting, she had felt strange, unreal. Cocky. No, strike that. Ever since her visit to Patrick Jane in the psych ward. Yes, that had been a turning point for her. An alte**red** state, as it were. Every visit made her stronger, more self-assured, almost carefree.

"But that's not why I'm here, is it sir?" she asked with a grin. She was channeling him. Damn him to hell. She would get herself fired.

LaRoche caught her grin but frowned, a flash of humour quickly buried. He laced his hands across his desk. "No, Agent Lisbon, it is not."

"Then why sir?" She leaned back, had to intentionally stop her ankle from bouncing. She would well and truly kill him when she saw him next. She didn't need her Glock. Her hands were lethal weapons.

"You have been visiting Mr. Jane regularly, haven't you, Agent Lisbon?"

It was a strange question, right out of the blue and her ankle stopped of its own accord.

"Yes sir. I have, sir."

"And how has he seemed?"

"Um…quiet, sir. Very, very…quiet…"

"He never says anything at all?"

She shook her head. "No sir."

"He never…does…anything?"

"If you are so concerned, sir, I'm sure he would love a visit from you."

"Hm." His mouth smiled. His eyes did not. "And when was the last time you visited Mr. Jane, Agent Lisbon?"

"Yesterday, sir."

"Yesterday…" He flipped open a file. He was always flipping open a file. "At what time, precisely?"

"Um, right after shift, so about four pm or so. Why? It's not against procedure, is it?"

"Oh no…no, not at all…"

He drew it out. He loved to do that. She realized that was a part of his power over people. But the fact that she realized it made her free of it, and for that, she thanked Patrick Jane.

"So…?"

He closed the file, looked up at her. His eyes flickered as he attempted to maintain eye contact. He had some syndrome. It was unnerving, but you got used to it.

"Patrick Jane was not in his room this morning."

The world stopped spinning right then. The moon ceased to orbit the earth, the planets ceased to orbit the sun. All metabolism stopped within her body and it was only through force of will that she breathed.

"What was that, sir?" She felt that odd, detaching sensation once again. It was becoming familiar territory as of late.

"As of 07:00 this morning, Mr. Patrick Jane was no longer to be found on the premises of _St. Sebastian's Psychiatric Hospital_. They have conducted a thorough search of the rooms, wards and grounds of the facility. He is quite literally, gone."

She sank back, scrunching her face in a bow. "Gone?"

"Yes, Agent. Gone."

"Gone where? How?"

"Unknown, Agent Lisbon. Did he give you any indication that he was about to vacate the premises?"

"No." She shook her head. "No, sir. He never said anything. He never did anything. He never does. He just sat there like he's done for three weeks since I started visiting…" She frowned some more, plunging deep into thought. "How could he get out?"

"Again, unknown." He stared at her for a long time, and she knew he didn't believe her for one moment. He flipped open the file one last time, cast his flickering eyes across the pages. "It's 33 miles outside of town." Looked up at her under his brow. "That's a long walk, Agent Lisbon."

She swallowed. "Assuming he came to town, sir, yes it is sir."

"Where else would he go, Agent?"

She shrugged. "No idea, unless…" She sat forward, brows drawn, an idea beginning to form in her mind.

"Unless?"

"Unless he didn't _leave..."_

The big man scowled. It made his face look like a peeled potato. "I'm not following."

"Oh God...oh _God…"_

"Agent, you are not being helpful."

She looked up, eyes wide. "I'm sorry sir, but if you say that Jane disappeared this morning, and this evening, we have a new Red John smiley face painted in blood on a wall somewhere downtown…"

Now it was LaRoche's turn to sit back. The chair creaked under his weight. "I see what you're saying, Agent Lisbon. I will put out an APB and bolus for Mr. Jane. He may be in very grave danger…"

"He may be worse than that, sir." She clenched her jaw, controlled her breathing. "This time, Red John didn't leave a body."

"That is rife with assumption, Agent Lisbon. Not only do we not know that this is the work of Red John, we do not know that it in fact has any connection whatsoever to Patrick Jane."

"Forgive me, sir, but all things 'Red John' pertain to Patrick Jane."

"I disagree. Not only is it unprofessional to think that way, it is unproductive. You will go home, have a good night's sleep, and we'll see what has played out in the morning."

"The Forensic report—"

"Will be waiting for you in the morning."

She sat a moment longer, frowning and thinking and wishing she had more answers rather than a hundred thousand questions right now. He had seemed normal. Nothing had been different.

Or had it…?

She could hear it, the buzz of second-guessing, the creeping fear of something undone, of something overlooked. It would drive her crazy all night. She would not sleep a wink until she found him. She would start looking immediately…

"Two other matters, Agent Lisbon…"

"Yes sir…" She wasn't paying attention. She wasn't even in the room.

"Agent Van Pelt has petitioned to return to work from her suspension. What are your thoughts on that?"

"Uhhh…" _Van Pelt. Van Pelt. Right._ Van Pelt had been suspended for three months without pay after inviting Craig O'Laughlin to a stakeout without clearing it with her superior. Three officers had been shot as a result and a woman and two children under protection had been placed in harm's way. It had been terrible judgment on Van Pelt's part. She deserved the suspension. Hell, if Lisbon thought enough on it, she deserved much, much more.

"Her paperwork insists that she had seen the seriousness of her actions, and the consequences it has had upon others…"

"Uh huh…" _Jane was missing. There was a new smiley face._

He stared at her for a long moment.

"I'm leaning toward her fulfilling the remaining time of her suspension. Are you in accord, Agent Lisbon?"

"Uh, sure. Sounds good."

_Jane was missing._

LaRoche cleared his throat.

"On a personal note…"

She glanced up, mind racing. "What?"

"The _Governor's Banquet in Support of the Office of the Attorney General _is in two weeks. I…" He smoothed his tie, didn't seem to know where to look. "I was wondering if you were going to attend?"

_Jane was missing. There was a new smiley frowny face on a wall downtown. He was asking about a dinner?_

"_What?"_ she asked again, not understanding.

"Will you be attending the _Governor's Banquet_, Agent Lisbon?"

"I…"

He was asking her out.

"I…"

J.J. LaRoche was asking her out. On a date. With Patrick Jane missing from a mental hospital and Red John on the loose.

"I don't know, sir…"

"You should think about it, Agent Lisbon. Director Bertram seems to think it would be advantageous to your career." He tried to smile, smoothed his tie yet again. "And I would have someone…diverting to talk with…"

LaRoche, flirting with her. Asking her out. He was as clumsy as a kid with _Asperger's.*_

"You like dogs, don't you, Agent Lisbon?"

_Patrick Jane missing, a new smiley face, and now dogs?_

"Um yes, sir. I...I like them…"

"We dog lovers can tell. You have several photos of what seems to be a spaniel/retriever cross on your desk."

"Yes sir…"

"A family dog, Agent?"

"… yes…"

"You see? We have so much in common. And I understand you have a lovely pink dress to wear. Since Agent Van Pelt will not be getting married anytime soon, it would be a shame not to put it to good use. But perhaps, that is too personal…"

She didn't know what to say.

"Think about it, Agent Lisbon."

"I will sir. I will think about it."

"Excellent. Good night, Agent Lisbon."

She took a deep breath, pulled in the reins of her confusion. Pushed out of the chair to leave, and it took all her effort not to sway.

"Good night sir."

She could feel his eyes on her as she walked out of the office, and she made up her mind to shred that pink dress.

""""""""""""""""""""""

She had emptied a good half bottle by the time she laid her head on the pillow. Two glasses was normal, but three, well, this had not exactly been a normal day. In fact, nothing had been normal these last 7 weeks, and she missed how it used to be. She missed the casework. She missed the team. And most of all, if she had to admit it, she missed him.

And now he was gone.

Fortunately, she had left the bottle in a cupboard in the kitchen. Bringing it to her bedside was strictly a no-no. She had seen that far too many times growing up, as her father drank himself to sleep night after night. She may hit it hard, but at least she left it in the cupboard. One of the few rungs of discipline that she had learned from his long, slow, miserable death.

She glanced the clock one more time. 3:43 am. It was black outside, and hot within. Her apartment was far from high-end, and the two window AC units groaned under the strain. She had three fans blowing as well, for at least the feel of air moving across one's skin was better than the heavy, sweltering blanket that they had come to know these last two months. Temperatures just seemed to be getting higher and higher, with no respite in sight.

She lay flat on her bed, not even a sheet as a cover, trying to lose herself in sleep. But it just wouldn't come, that sleep, for every time she closed her lids, she saw that face, that damned smiley frowny face, and Jane, sitting with his back against the padded wall, dressed in white.

She couldn't even cry anymore. There was simply not enough water left anywhere. She was empty, drained, numb.

Much like he had been. She could relate much better, now. Small favours, but still.

And so she lay there, only slightly drunk, and drifting in and out of awareness for what seemed like days, but she knew was hours, until it hit - the sudden lurch between pre-sleep and waking, and she sat up in her bed, heart pounding, head spinning, ears straining in the darkness.

Nothing.

Damn the Scotch. It did this every time. She should know better.

But still.

With a deep breath, she pulled her legs off the bed and padded quietly to the door of her bedroom, pressed an ear to the outside. Nothing. She was being paranoid. And maybe more than just a little drunk.

She needed one more, as a chaser.

And so she threw open the door and moved toward her little kitchen, her bare feet making little slapping noises on the laminate. Streetlights glowed softly from the large windows that were her living room. She had never cared much about that – the bedroom was dark. That was all that mattered. She could see well in the darkness with just those streetlights, could walk around naked if she wanted and no one would be the wiser. That had always seemed a good thing to her, but now, it just seemed solitary, withdrawn, alone. For good measure, she cast her eyes across the sparse furnishings and boxes of her life, shook her head sadly at the fact that she had never bothered to fully unpack. She veered left, into the open space that was the kitchenette, and reached up on tiptoe for the cupboard, her Bears T pulling up a little too high on her hip.

She froze.

It wasn't a sound, so much as a feeling. The tingle of another presence, the energy of proximity. She lowered back to the ground, momentarily forgetting about the bottle and wishing her Glock was close at hand. A used butter knife in the sink, and her fingers closed over it ever so carefully, the whiskey now all but forgotten.

"If you've got a gun, you'd better shoot," she growled out into the darkness of her living room, illuminated by the streetlamps from outside. "Because you're not going to take me down any other way."

There was no response.

She swallowed, and stepped around the counter and into the living room.

Swept her eyes across the couch, peered behind it. Nothing. Reached for the light switch and with one hand steady on the breadknife, flicked it on.

In the corner of the room, almost obscured by a pile of brown moving boxes, was a pair of bare feet. Her heart leaped to her throat. Bare feet, scratched and blistered and bleeding, attached to a pair of legs, clad in white hospital cottons, filthy from 33 miles of walking. She moved in closer, almost afraid to breathe. White cotton T, grimy from wear, and finally, the blond head, curls far too long, scruff far to shaggy, for a man who prided himself on his meticulous appearance.

She lowered the knife.

Patrick Jane was in the building.

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

**A Road lEss traveleD**

_**Chapter 4: alphabet(a gamma delta) soup**_

If there was a place that he loved more than any other place on the face of the earth, Patrick Jane would have to say it was the stretch of _beach _in front of the house in Malibu. It had been a very expensive purchase, not only for the location, but for the sheer half mile of sandy oceanfront property that he had shared with his _wife_ and _daughter._ He had walked that stretch of beach with them and sometimes alone, in the early hours before dawn and in the late hours of night, sometimes with only the moon and the rushing tides for _company._ That stretch of beach was like nowhere else in the whole world. On that beach he was _happy_.

On that beach he was _home_.

He could see her, _play_ing in the waves just off shore. She had made a _sand castle_ and had decorated it with shells. She had a huge collection of shells. He had taught her all the names of creatures they had belonged to, all the names of the creatures they ate, and all the names of the creatures that ate them. He had taught her how to make them disappear as if by _magic_ and to reappear behind someone's ear. Her _mother _had helped her make necklaces and bracelets out of them, and _Charlotte_ had been _happiest_ when in or near _water._

Today, she had wandered just a little bit farther, so he had followed, his toes sinking into the soft, wet sand just enough to make the going tough. She had wande**red** more, and he had called to her, but she couldn't hear, and he had followed, just a little faster, just a little farther, calling her name, restraining his temper as she st**r**ay**ed** further and further from home. She was not usually so **disobedient** but then again, she was her _daddy's daughter_ and he couldn't **blame** her for it. He would follow her to the end of the earth if he had to. He would follow her forever.

The sun had risen, the sun had set. The tide had come in, the tide had **r**oll**ed** out. Roll tide roll tide

_**roll tide**_

There had been a **red sky that morning**, still a **red sky at night.**

Something was **wrong** but he couldn't put his finger on it, and so he walked along that stretch of beach, calling her name, and she was always just a little too far out of reach.

At some point, he realized that his feet were growing sore, and he cu**r**s**ed** himself for not wearing at least a pair of sandals for such a jaunt. He had many, many nice shoes in his closet, as many as his _wife, _if not more. She was thrifty and it made him **crazy**. They'd had more money than they could ever spend, and yet she still insisted on making things last, stretching things out, just in case. Hell, she even **re**cycle**d.**

She had kept an old pair of shoes – an unlikely set of tan low-rise wallabies from when they'd first run off together. He'd bought them at a thrift store in Kansas when they'd wheeled through with the show, had worn them proudly until his first job in Vegas, then couldn't peel them off his feet fast enough. Shiny things he bought then, black and slick with modern style. He loved_ shiny _things, like a magpie. He'd never given those shoes a second thought, until she brought them up out of a box, ten years later, and ma**r**vel**ed **at how well they'd held up.

He'd give anything to be wearing those shoes right about now.

The sand had grown **hard** like cement, like asphalt, and bits of metal and glass **cut **into the soles of his feet. That was not acceptable. On this prime stretch of California real estate, landowners were required to maintain their own beaches. His stretch was _pristine._ This, this was **shameful.**

It was dark now, too, and he could only make Charlotte out as a silhouette against the moon. There were streetlamps too – odd, unusual to find streetlamps on a beach, but then again, people were no respecters of tradition these days. And cars. There were cars on the beach. Honestly, people had no respect at all.

And suddenly, to top it all off, there was an apartment building, right there on the ocean. A set of steps or a cheesy elevator, take your pick, and he shook his head. _Why would someone put an apartment building right here, on a Malibu beach?_ Some things boggled him to no end.

He looked around, trying to see her, and somehow he knew he wouldn't. But also, somehow he knew that he would find what he needed in that apartment building, so with a sigh, he grabbed the banister and began the painful trek up the stairs and onto the balcony outside her door.

He f**r**own**ed.**

_Who's_ door?

He was very, very tir**ed**. His feet ached, his legs ached, his head ached. He desperately wanted to lie down on the beach, on his beach, sink into the softness of the sand. Charlotte would be fine. She would eventually come over, tuck her little body under his arm and doze with him in the afternoon sun. They would be shaking sand out of their clothes and hair for days and it would make Angie_ crazy_, but then again, there was nothing new in that.

He p**r**ess**ed **a hand on the dark surface of the door, feeling for the signature of the _woman_ within, reaching in with his mind for her aura, her sense, her being. He knew it, he knew her, but how, and from where was eluding him. He needed to get in, and had no key. Fortunately, that was rarely a problem, and he knew that he needed something on the other side of that door.

So he cracked his knuckles and got to work.

""""""""""""""""

For some reason, she flicked off the light.

Patrick Jane was in her living room.

He had escaped from a mental institution 33 miles away, was still technically under arrest with criminal charges pending, and was the number one target of a serial killer who had suddenly kicked up his game. Flicking off the light just seemed the prudent thing to do.

As she knelt down in front of him, she threw a glance to her door. Neither dead bolt nor chain had been moved. How the hell had he gotten in? She shook her head, swallowed hard, and peered at him in the lamplight. Just like in the hospital, his eyes were flat, staring at a particular patch of floor, but she could see him breathing this time, so that had to mean something. The fact that he was _here_ had to mean something, and why he would walk 33 miles across state highways and residential tracts to get here was a question she couldn't even begin to answer. His face was filthy, as were his hospital whites, and she could see the effort that had to have gone into his marathon.

She reached for his forehead, surprised to find him cold. Central California was in the middle of a heat wave, it was likely 100 degrees outside at this time of night, but he was cold like January.

His hands were bloody, his feet were in tatters, and she winced as she saw bits of thorns, glass and wire embedded in the skin. 33 miles, in bare feet. Surely he had to have felt something. Surely he had to have known.

"Jane," she said, keeping her voice low and steady. "Jane, can you look at me?"

He did. It seemed to take a great effort, but he pulled his glassy stare from that patch on her floor, and turned his blue eyes on her, and her heart skipped like a lamb in springtime.

She grabbed his hands, willing him to stay with her, willing him to focus. "Jane, it's me, Lisbon. Do you know where you are? How did you get here?"

His eyes roamed around her living room, swept across the boxes and table and cupboards, before returning to her face. He frowned, opened his mouth as if to speak.

"I…" He cleared his throat, made a growling sound, frowned some more. It was natural, she figured. He hadn't spoken in at least 7 weeks. For a wordsmith like Jane, that had to be hard.

"I…aaah…"

She squeezed his hands. "Yes?"

"I need… something…"

"Okay. What? What do you need, Jane?"

"Aah…" He frowned again, pulled his hands away from hers and into fists as he struggled in the battle for his mind. He growled again, battered his fists on his head in frustration. "I need something, but I can't remember…"

"It's okay, Jane," she said. "It'll come."

"No, no, I need…what? _Damn!"_ His fingers were moving now, like counting. "Alpha, beta, gamma, delta, epsilon, zeta, eta, theta, iota, kappa, lambda, mu, nu, psi, omicron, pi, rho, sigma, tao— Tao! _Tao!"_

"What? What is that? Greek?"

Tao! 20th letter of the alphabet! 20th letter of the alphabet!"

"I don't understand."

"It's that, it's that thing! 20th letter of the alphabet! I need that!"

She frowned herself now, realizing that she didn't know the alphabet off by heart. So she began to sing, very rapidly, counting off on her own fingers as she did so.

"ABCDEFG…HIJKLMNOP…QRST—"

"T!"

"T?"

"Tea." He smiled at her, and all the tension drained immediately from his body. "I need a cup of tea, very badly."

"You need a cup of tea…?"

"Yes, please. If it's not too much trouble."

He had escaped from a mental institution 33 miles away, was still technically under arrest with criminal charges pending, and was the number one target of a serial killer who had suddenly kicked up his game. His feet were in shreds, he hadn't spoken for almost 2 months, had broken into a state agent's apartment, but of everything in the world he could ask for, it made sense that it would be tea.

She had crossed the border into the land of crazy.

"Sure. I'll go put on the kettle."

He sagged against the wall, finally looking as exhausted as he surely must feel.

"Make sure the water is truly boiling. You do have milk, yes?"

She rose to her feet. "Yes, Jane. I have milk."

He smiled and closed his eyes. "Wonderful. Do you have a blue cup?"

She padded over to the kitchen, pulled the kettle from a drawer. "Nope. A Disney mug will have to do."

"Do you have any princesses?"

She grinned, filled the kettle with water, reached into a cupboard. "Take your pick. Ariel, Cinderella or Belle. Mulan is mine."

"Ariel. Charlotte loves Ariel. She can have that one."

"Charlotte…?" Slowly, she turned.

"I'll take Goofy, if you have. But Charlotte would love the Ariel mug. Angie doesn't like her to have tea, but I put extra milk and sugar in it, so it's not so bad…" Eyes still closed, he made a face. "Or maybe it's worse. Hmph. Depends on your perspective, I suppose."

"Charlotte is having tea with us, Jane?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Oh no. Not at all. Not…at all."

"She'll come in for tea. She's been in the water all day. Honestly, she's a fish. She should be a mermaid. But she can't sing. Not one note. Like me, that way. Couldn't hold a tune if I tried. So I don't."

Here it went again, that damned heart of hers breaking in two, three, four pieces on account of him. He was mad, that was clear. He was talking, but he was mad, and she realized that he was probably the happiest she had ever seen him, wrapped in the past with a mermaid daughter and a doting wife, and probably living in that damned Malibu beach house of his, and her tears threatened to spill yet again, as she also realized that there was a part of him that she would never know, could never share, or ever be a part of.

The kettle began to whistle, and she reached for the shelf with the tea bags. Right above it, the bottle of Scotch, all golden and tempting and sweet, and she stared at it for a long moment. It would be so easy. He was lost, why shouldn't she be as well? They could be lost together in their fairytale worlds – he the mad prince, she the princess locked in a tower of her own making. Romance at its melancholic, melodramatic best. It was worth a novel or two, wasn't it? She'd make a million if only she could write.

She pulled out the tea and closed the door on the Scotch. Poured the water over the bags in three mugs, one Goofy, one Ariel and one Mulan, the common girl who hid the fact that she was a woman and in doing so, saved China. She could relate. Dipped the bags as she had seen him do, added the milk afterwards, grateful that his eyes were still closed. Maybe he was crazy enough not to notice her faux pas. Extra milk and sugar for Charlotte. Carried all three mugs in her hands over to the floor, crossed her legs and sat beside him.

"Here's your tea," she said softly.

"Mmhm," he said, eyes still closed, smile fixed happily to his face. He made no move to take it.

"I'm glad you're here," she said softly.

"Mmhm," he said.

"Do you want to sleep on the couch?"

"Mmhm," he said. "Can Charlotte sleep in your bed?"

"Of course."

"Thank you, Lisbon." He turned his head, eyes slivers of blue under sleepy lids. "You kissed me… In the hospital. You kissed me on the forehead."

"Yeah."

He smiled some more before closing his eyes for the last time. "That was nice."

Damn him. Damn him to hell. "Good." She put the mugs down, rose to her feet and took his arm, helping him struggle on blistered feet to the couch. He was asleep before his head hit the cushion.

She reached for the blanket that draped over the back of her couch. It was blue and had a yellow puppy on it. She dragged it over his shoulders, leaned down and kissed his forehead once again. Sat down again with her back to the couch like a dog guarding her master and waited for the morning to come.

_To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

**a **_**R**_**oad l**_**E**_**ss travele**_**D**_

_**Chapter 5: (i would walk) five hundRED miles**_

The sun came in strong straight shafts into the room. She opened her eyes and sat up too quickly. It made her head spin and she pouted as she waited for the sensation to cease. Her fuzzy blanket – the one with the puppy on it – slid off her shoulders and onto her legs, and she realized that she had fallen asleep on the floor of her living room and that was a very strange thing.

Perhaps she had been drinking?

Made sense. Eyes blinking, lips smacking, she peered around to orient herself, only to find Patrick Jane sitting on the couch, cradling a cup of tea.

He looked like hell.

"Am I dreaming?" she asked.

He shrugged, sipped his tea. "Maybe we're all dreaming. That would be a good thing, I think."

He was staring at a patch of floor, eyes dull, face expressionless, and the events of last night came rushing back. He had broken out of a state psychiatric facility and walked 33 miles to her apartment. She had let him in, let him sleep on her couch, had not called her supervisors. She was in a world of trouble now. So yep, it would be a good thing if this were a dream.

"How do you feel?" she asked, for she couldn't think of anything else to say.

He sighed, but did not move his eyes. "Charlotte's not here, is she?"

She sighed, shook her head. "No, Jane. I'm sorry. She's not here."

He nodded, refused to look anywhere but the patch of floor. She narrowed her eyes to study him.

"But… you still _see _her, don't you?"

He nodded.

_Damn._

"Where is she?"

His gaze flicked briefly toward her door, then back to the floor. "She's wet from swimming on the beach, but she's bleeding from a hundred cuts. Those two things can't co-exist, ergo she can't exist. She _doesn't_ exist. She's dead and buried and gone."

"But you still see her."

"I see a lot of things."

_Double damn._ That was more than she needed to know. She rose to her feet. "Is that the tea from last night?"

"Yes," he said. "The kettle would whistle and I didn't want to wake you."

"Would you like me to make some fresh?"

"That would be lovely."

She tugged down her Chicago Bears T-shirt and shuffled over to the kitchenette. Filled the kettle with water and set it on the element. She should call LaRoche, fill him in and ask for some time to handle things. Wouldn't happen however, and she took a long deep cleansing breath as she waited for the kettle to boil.

"What other things do you see, Jane?"

"You mean here? In your living room?"

_Damn damn damn…_

"Sure. Hell, why not?"

"Well, there's a bloody face on the wall over there." He inclined his head in one direction. "Red John I presume, but I don't know. It's frowning, not smiling, so that's a little weird…" He inclined his head in the other. "And over there, a red and blue man sitting at the table…"

"A red and blue man?" she frowned.

"Yep."

"Red and blue? How so?"

"Well, his nose, cheeks and eyes are red, indicating a drunk. His lips and skin pallor are blue, indicating he's dead. Other than that, his hair is black, his irises are green like yours, and he's wearing an orange cap with a blue bear on it…"

She swallowed again. "That…that's my dad you're describing…"

"Oh. So he's not here either. I'm glad. He's a little scary." He swiveled in her direction. "Last night you had blood coming out of your mouth and eyes. You look much better this morning. Hair is a little…" He raised his hand over his head, made a messy motion, and then a face. "But otherwise, much better."

"You need a shower."

"I need many things."

"A shower will do as a start."

"No tea?"

"After your shower."

"Can you help me to the bathroom? It's very hard to walk. I think I have glass in my feet."

"I'm sure you have glass in your feet. You walked 33 miles to my house."

He looked impressed with himself.

She moved around to help him stand, let him slip an arm over her shoulder, stayed silent as he yelped and whimpered and hissed as they struggled to the bathroom. He hesitated before going in.

"There aren't any dead, bloody, icky things in there, are there?"

"No," she said categorically.

"How would you know? You're still sane."

"I'm not coming in with you."

"Can I call you if something crawls out of the drain?"

"No."

"Out of the toilet?"

"No."

"What if the towels are dripping with blood?"

"Jane…"

"It happens. Believe me."

"Shower. Now. I'll find you a change of clothes."

"I like the Bears Tshirt."

She closed the door on him, wishing it had a lock from the _out_side.

"There are bats in here…" sang his voice from the other side.

"Pets. Now shut up and shower!"

She sighed, shuffled off to her room to find her phone.

"""""""""""""""""""""

It was almost 8:00 in the morning. Cho was sipping coffee over the Forensics report when Rigsby wandered in and dropped down beside him.

"That the Forensics report?"

"Yep," said Cho.

"Was it blood?"

"Yep," said Cho.

"Human?"

"Yep," said Cho.

"Red John."

"Probably," said Cho.

Rigsby glanced around. "Where's the boss?"

"Don't know," said Cho.

Rigsby sighed. "I hate this," he grumbled. "I really hate this. Do you think LaRoche is going to let Grace back?"

"Hope not," said Cho.

"Hey, she's really sorry. She knows she shouldn't have done that. She's learned her lesson."

"She's sloppy," said Cho. "Doesn't use her head."

Rigsby sat back in his chair. "I think she's a great agent."

"You're in love with her," said Cho. "You'll say anything to get her back."

"That's not true." There was silence for a moment. Cho read the report, sipped his coffee. Rigsby threw up his hands. "Okay, maybe that's true. But still, I really hate all of this. Jane nuts, Lisbon shot, Grace suspended…that leaves you and me."

For the first time, Cho glanced up over the report and stared at his partner.

"You're right," said Cho. "I hate this."

A shape loomed over them.

"Is Agent Lisbon in yet?" came the gravelly voice of JJ LaRoche.

"Nope," said Cho.

"Uh, no sir," said Rigsby, perking up like a child in the presence of the principal. "Not yet."

"Hmmm…" His flickering gaze flickered between the agents. "Please have her come to my office as soon as she gets in."

"Yessir," said Rigsby. "As soon as she gets in."

"As soon as she gets in," said Cho.

The big man turned as if to leave, paused, then turned back again. "Has she told you about Mr. Jane?"

"Nope," said Cho.

"No sir," said Rigsby. "What about Jane?"

"He went missing from _St. Sebastian's_ yesterday morning."

"Whoa," said Rigsby.

"Cool," said Cho.

LaRoche's stare fell on him. "It is most certainly not 'cool', Agent. It is dangerous. If either of you hear from him, I will expect that you contact me immediately. Is that understood?"

"Yessir," said Rigsby.

Cho said nothing, a fact that was not lost on LaRoche. The flickering stare weighed on him for several long moments, before the big man lumbered off.

Rigsby leaned in. "Whoa! Go Jane. What the hell is he doing?"

"Don't know," said Cho. As if on cue, his phone rang. He made a face and put the phone to his ear. "Hey Boss…Yeah. Yeah, okay. Yeah, he was just looking for you. Clothes? I don't – never mind. I don't want to know. Sure. Anything in particular? Sure. I'll be there in forty minutes."

He folded his phone and looked up at his partner. "I gotta go."

"Was that Lisbon?"

"No," said Cho.

"But you said Boss…"

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did!"

"Be back in an hour." With that, the stocky agent downed the last of his coffee, rose to his feet and disappeared from the bullpen.

Rigsby sighed and looked around.

"I hate this," he moaned, and got up to find something to eat.

""""""""""""""""""""""

Lisbon had changed into jeans and a black Tshirt, and made herself a big pot of coffee when there was a rap at the door. She knew it would be Cho. It had been exactly forty minutes. He was uncanny that way.

She opened the door and he slipped in, holding a large blue backpack.

"Value City," he said. "I just guessed at the sizes."

"Thank you _so_ much," she said. "I owe you."

"Where is he?"

"In the shower."

"How's he doing?"

"Well, he's been in there almost an hour. There were too many bats."

"There's always too many bats."

She grinned. Cho. Steady, dependable, unflappable Cho. One normal thing in her wild and crazy world. "Do you want some coffee?"

"Nah. Rigsby's freaking out. Besides, we got the Forensics report back."

"Human blood?"

"Yep. They're doing a DNA analysis as we speak."

"Good. Listen, can you run interference with LaRoche for me? I'm gonna call in sick."

"He's suspicious already."

"Damn."

"What are you going to do with him?"

"I have no idea! He wants to go out with me! He's asking if I'm going to the Governor's Banquet next month and he wants me to wear that damned pink dress! He wants to be my 'puppy pal' and he —"

"I meant Jane…"

"Oh…uhhh…" She stared at him, a deer in the headlights. "Jane. Right. We… should… talk about Jane…"

"Yeah. Now I have images in my head."

"Sorry, Cho. I…" Her shoulders sagged. "I honestly have no idea what to do with Jane. If he goes back, I think he'll just shut down again. Here, at least he's talking. He's mad as a hatter, but he's talking."

"It's not safe. If that face _was_ Red John's…"

She sighed. "I know. I need to take him somewhere, somewhere that none of Red John's people can find him."

"Good luck finding that place."

"I know..."

"And then what?"

"Figure out what I'm gonna do with the rest of my life, 'cause I probably be fired by the end of the day."

Cho grinned now. "Maybe you could wait tables at the Governor's Banquet."

She hit him in the arm. "Please, pleeeeeease, stay for some coffee. I need a serious dose of normal…"

"Okay. Sure. As long as you have cream."

Together, they turned and Lisbon let out a squeal, slapped a hand over her eyes and spun around toward the door.

"Hi," said Patrick Jane.

"You're naked," said Cho.

"I need more scrubbing bubbles."

"The bats?" said Cho.

"Droppings everywhere. It's disgusting."

"Put a towel on, dammit!" snapped Lisbon, hand still firmly clasped over her eyes.

"The towels are covered in bat droppings. Really Lisbon, you should take better care of your pets."

"Nice abs," said Cho. "You working out?"

Jane looked down, impressed with himself. Looked back up and grinned. "I walked 33 miles yesterday."

"Cool," said Cho. "I brought you some clothes."

"My man, Cho. Why is there a knife sticking out of your neck?"

Cho blinked. "I have no idea."

"You might want to take that out. Carefully, though. You might nick something." He sighed. "I'm going back to finish up."

"Please," moaned Lisbon. "Go now."

"Then we need to talk about those bats."

"Yes, Jane, yes. Just _go."_

There was the slap slap slapping of wet feet and the loud slam of a door.

"Is he gone? Please tell me he's gone…"

"He's gone," grinned Cho. "Which I think would be a good adjective for me."

"God help me…" She swung around and grabbed his arms. "What am I going to do with him, Cho? What am I going to do?"

And Kimball Cho did something that he hadn't done in over ten years.

Kimball Cho laughed.

He laughed as he disentangled himself from her grip. Laughed as he made his way to the doorway of her apartment. Laughed all the way to the dark SUV parked below.

He was still laughing as he drove away, leaving her with a madman and a bathroom full of bats.

"I'm gonna shoot him," she growled to herself. "That's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna shoot him, then I'm gonna shoot Kimball Cho. I'm going on a rampage, yes I am. Just watch out, Sacramento. I'm gonna shoot everyone even remotely connected with my sad little life…"

She muttered all the way to the bedroom, closed the door behind her and there was quiet for less than a heartbeat when a second squeal echoed down the hallway.

"Jane! What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?"

"The red and blue gentleman said there were clean towels in here."

"There are no clean towels in here!"

"Obviously. Only these…"

"Put those down and get out! Now!"

"Touchy, touchy."

The sound of squeaking feet on laminate flooring and a door slamming a second time.

Patrick Jane sighed, and padded back into the living room, spied the blue backpack, pounced on it like a cat.

"Ooh," he brightened. "Clothes…"

With that, he turned and padded back to the bathroom, where he changed in the presence of bats.

""""""""""""""

It was a long drive, but at least Jane was wearing clothes. Cho had found a pair of dockers in light gray that fit if a belt was worn with them, a light blue T-shirt that was still two sizes too big, and a pair of dark brown loafers that fit like…well, like dark brown loafers. But the thing that had made Patrick Jane's day was the vest, a charcoal pin-striped vest in Edinburgh wool, which he had donned with great formality and aplomb. In fact, Lisbon could have sworn she saw tears.

It was missing a few buttons, so he didn't do it up, but she had to admit that the ensemble looked good on him. Different, casual, crazy, but good.

His hair was still too long, and it waved in the car as he sat in the passenger seat, enjoying the rush of hot air on his face. She had needed to haul him back in the window three times already – told him he was stretching the seat belt and throwing off the aerodynamics of the vehicle. He had insisted on keeping the windows open however, and all the air conditioning was being sucked out of the vehicle in favour of his sanity. He reminded her of a dog in a car. If his tongue could loll, it would have.

And she hated to admit it, but she was beginning to like the scruff.

They had been driving for over an hour west toward the ocean, and with the window rolled down like that, she caught the occasional whiff of salt water and fish. Marin County was an exclusive area, and she shook her head as they drove through the neighbourhoods at the sheer size of the homes. One monthly mortgage payment alone was likely her entire year's salary.

Finally, as the sky began to grow golden in the first rays of sunset, she rolled up to a huge gate. There was an intercom system attached, and she leaned out her own window slightly to speak.

"Teresa Lisbon. He's expecting me."

She glanced over at Jane. He was smiling from ear to ear, reaching out trying to catch a wisteria that was hanging over the roof of the car. There was a loud buzz, and the gate began to swing in slowly. The flower snapped off in his hand and he sat back as they rolled forward, putting the flower to his nose and breathing in deeply.

He seemed truly happy.

The drive curved upwards, along a winding and elaborately landscaped mountainside. In fact, the landscaping was so lush it was almost obscene, and again she found herself shaking her head. She could never live in a place like this. It was simply too much for her. It was probably too much for anyone.

A grand mansion loomed as they drove up, built into the mountainside with a splendid panoramic view of the ocean. But down here, as she rolled her car to a stop at a steep set of stairs, it was a carefully constructed jungle, with tall palms, lush walkways and water gardens bubbling and splashing at every turn.

A man was walking down the path toward her car. Dressed in tan trousers, red polo shirt and mirrored shades that were worth more than her car. He spread wide his arms and smiled as he approached.

"Teresa," he called. "What a wonderful surprise."

She suppressed a smile and rocked back on her heels.

"Hello Walter," she said and that was all she got out before Walter Mashburn, millionaire, mogul and Marin-county playboy, swept her into his arms.

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

**a Road lEss traveleD**

_**Chapter 6: rosanna**_

He smelled good, he felt strong, and she realized it would be very easy to sink into his arms and let him take care of everything. He _would_ take care of everything, she knew it completely. He was one of the richest men in the country and as such, his security was second to none. Both she and Jane would likely be safe and cared for the rest of their lives if they chose to be. But it wasn't an answer – certainly not the answer Mashburn would be seeking from her, nor the answer Jane deserved. No, this, this was temporary, for her heart did not belong to Walter Mashburn and never would.

She pulled out of his arms and took his hand instead.

"Thank you, Walter. I can't tell you how much this means to me…"

His smile waned slightly and his eyes flicked to the SUV, to the ragtag figure stepping out of the passenger side, now spinning around in a slow circle in wonderment as he took in the sights. She held her breath for a moment, thinking of all the ways this could possibly go down, until Mashburn looked back at her and smiled gently. His face told her everything she needed to know.

He was a good, good man and she was a fool not to love him.

"Patrick," he called, releasing her in more ways than one, and stretching out his hand. "How are you doing, my friend?"

Jane beamed at him. "This is all yours?"

"Why, yes it is. Don't you remember? You've been here before. We had a party here once."

Jane ambled up, still holding the wisteria. "Did anybody die?"

Mashburn glanced at Lisbon. "Well, no. Not exactly…"

"Hm. There is a lot of pain here. A lot of hurt and pain. Why is that?"

"I…don't know what you're talking about, Patrick…"

"Sure you do. There's a woman over there sitting on that rock. She had a heart attack and died, right there under that tree. She was one of your gardeners…no, the gardener's wife. Rosa? Rosalie? Rosanna…"

Mashburn stared at him, white-faced.

"Rosanna, yeh, that's it. You were sleeping with her daughter. She found out and it broke her heart. Quite literally. There are many, many sad people here…It's a very sad place, despite all the parties…"

Lisbon looked away, not sure what to say.

For his part, Mashburn was quiet for a long moment. "That _did _happen, Patrick. Many, many years ago. You are quite gifted. I never realized how so…"

"Meh," said Jane and handed him the flower and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You just need to make it right. Make some amends, treat them better. She'll forgive you and they'll go away in time."

Mashburn looked at the wisteria. "Thank you… for your unsolicited, cryptic and disturbing advice."

"No problem."

There was another silence for a long moment.

"Walter, "Lisbon stepped forward. "You mentioned the island…"

Relieved, Mashburn smiled, and he held out one arm. "Yes, but it's too late to get you there tonight. You'll spend the night here, in my home and we'll head out in the morning. Is either of you hungry? I've had my staff prepare a late supper…"

"Oh, no, Walter. We're fine—"

"Famished," grinned Jane. "Do you have eggs?"

They turned and began to walk up the steps to the house.

"If we don't, then we'll make them, just for you."

"Waffles? With real artificial syrup?"

"The most artificial money can buy."

"Splendid. What about Moonpies? I love Moonpies."

"We'll ship in a crate."

Jane beamed at Lisbon. "This is going to be fun. Dead people are so much easier to take on a full stomach…"

And the three of them climbed the steep stairs to the mansion built into the side of a mountain.

"""""""""""""""""""

The late supper had in fact been a feast, and unfortunately, most of it was wasted on them. She rarely ate when upset and Jane, well, Jane had simply not eaten solid food in almost seven weeks. His stomach was likely the size of a pea. He had nibbled a piece of cantaloupe, munched a breadstick, downed a quick Scotch, then spied the ocean and was gone in a flash. Lisbon and Mashburn followed at a more leisurely pace.

And so they sat on a stone deck above a stunning beach, Mashburn finishing the Scotch, she drinking only water, wearing one of his big woolen cardigans and watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean and Patrick Jane play on the shore.

He was making sand castles and talking to someone only he could see.

"I heard what happened but I didn't believe it," said Mashburn quietly. "So he's really nuts, then?"

She fought back the growl. Funny how defensive she got at comments like that now. Overly sensitive. Or maybe now it was personal. She shrugged it off, lifted the glass to her lips.

"Yep. Nuts. Crazy. Mad as a hatter. Hip deep _in-_sane."

Mashburn nodded. "Seems pretty happy to me."

"Yeah. Me too."

She could feel his eyes on her. He still wanted her, she could tell. It had been a mistake, their night together. Wonderful, crazy, impulsive, but a mistake. He wanted what he couldn't have, he could never _have_ her, and it was clear that made him want her all the more. But she couldn't. Not now, not ever again. He would try to own her and she would despise him for it.

"So what are you going to do?"

"Beats me."

Her phone rang. She pulled it out, frowned, slipped it back in her pocket.

"Ah," Mashburn grinned. "Screener."

"You have no idea." She laughed softly. "It's my boss. I'm sure he knows I'm involved somehow. He's been calling all day."

"You're gonna need to tell him sometime, Teresa."

"Next June? Would that work?" She sipped her water, suddenly wishing it were Scotch. "He asked me out yesterday…"

"Who? Your boss?"

"Yep."

"The man has good taste."

She smiled again. It was nice to be flattered, if only just a little. Mashburn was very, very good at it. It would be easy to let him.

She sighed. The sky was so very beautiful now, all red, orange and purple as the ocean swallowed the sun. Jane was a golden silhouette down below, and he had abandoned his castle and was wading in the surf. He was soaked up to his thighs and she shook her head, not knowing if Cho had bought a change of clothes or what they might do for pyjamas.

"You love him, don't you?"

"What?" It was like a splash of cold water. She made a face. "No! Why would you say something like that?"

"You don't get very far in business without the ability to read people, Teresa." His face was shrewd, indulgent and just a little patronizing. It set her teeth on edge. "And I've gotten _very _far in business."

"No, you're wrong. We've just worked together for a long time. We've been through some serious crap together. I've saved his life, he's saved mine, you know, stuff like that. That changes things. Changes people. We trust each other…we, we depend on each other…we just… um… we just…"

Finally, she stopped prattling, stared out at the sunset, eyes wide open, not seeing a thing.

"Oh god," she said in a quiet voice. "You're right."

He smiled but said nothing.

"I love him. Oh crap…"

He sat back, swirled the ice in his glass. "Ah. Love."

She turned to look at him. "Walter, what does that mean?"

"It means you love him, Teresa."

"_No_. I mean, I know, but…_No…"_

"It's not a crime, Teresa."

"It's bad, Walter. I can't love him. I can't love Patrick Jane. We work together. We close cases. We stop bad people. It's a good thing. It's a very good thing. I can't ruin that. And, and he's crazy! I can't… I, I can't…"

"Who says you have to ruin anything? And so what if he's crazy? Teresa, if there's one thing in this world I know for a fact, is that love doesn't come along everyday. That sounds like a cliché, I know, but I've had five wives and I don't think I've loved any of them. I've chased them, I've won them, I've enjoyed them, and I've let them all go. But I've never loved anyone the way I know you love him."

"Damn…" she sighed, feeling suddenly very weak and slightly numb. "It doesn't matter anyway," she muttered, watching him now chasing seagulls along the shore. "He's still in love with his wife."

"Maybe he is. But she's not here. You are."

She shrugged.

He leaned forward. "And maybe that's what he needs from you the most."

"What's that?"

"An anchor."

"An anchor?"

"Mmhm. An anchor to reality. This reality. _Real _reality. The past has too strong a grip on him and for the past eight years, he's been living for some imagined 'future'."

She nodded. "The killing of Red John."

"Exactly. With one foot in the past and one foot in the future, that doesn't leave any foothold in the present."

It made sense. She stared back out at the sunset as Mashburn continued.

"He has nothing to keep him here, now, does he? So maybe what he needs from you is a good dose of Now."

Finally, she turned to look at him.

"How long have you known?"

He sat back, emptied his glass, reached for the bottle, poured out the last drops.

"From the first moment I met you."

"What? So…why, why would you…?"

"That's part of the fun," he grinned wickedly now. "Stealing another man's girl. Just to see if I could. It's the business of acquisition."

She grinned back. "Bastard."

"You know it."

Her phone rang again. This time, she picked up.

"Hey…" The voice on the other end talked a moment, and she sighed, sinking into the deck chair. "Damn. Where? Damn! And the security cameras caught nothing? Right. Of course. Makes sense. Okay, we're safe for the moment. I'll call you tomorrow, and don't say anything to LaRoche…" she smirked. "Yes, I know. Thanks Cho. You know you don't need— right, I'll shut up now. Bye."

She folded her phone and slipped it back in her pocket. Sat for a moment, staring at the sunset.

Finally, she turned to look at him. "Is there anything left in that bottle?"

He shrugged, made an innocent face. "Sorry, the_ Glenlivet_ is all gone…"

That innocent face held for all of ten seconds before he reached down to pull up another. "Looks like we'll need to break into the _Glenfiddich_…"

She grinned weakly, passed over her glass. "My boys got a call tonight. Another Red John face painted on a building. No body."

"Hmm…" he poured her two fingers, thought some more, made it three. "Isn't 'no body' a good thing?"

"Normally, yes, but this is Red John. There's something else going on."

"Hmm. Where was the building?"

She took a long swig of the Scotch. He was impressed. She turned to look at him. "Front door of the Department of Justice Building."

There was a long silence. "Oh."

"The security cameras had been disabled."

More silence as the repercussions sunk in. "That would be bad, right?"

"You have no idea."

"Wow. Bold move."

"Yeah. He's angry."

Mashburn poured himself two fingers now. "Probably not wise to make a serial killer angry, right?"

"Walter, I've put you in a very dangerous place—"

"Teresa, please—"

"Walter, I know that you think this is exciting, that it is some great game we play, but it is really, truly dangerous. If Red John even gets a whiff that you're involved—"

"Teresa, I care about you a lot. I really do. But you know what else? I like that guy down there too, crazy or not. I don't have a plethora of friends, as you might have noticed. Patrick doesn't care about my money, doesn't care that he beats me in the smarts game, doesn't care that I have made bad choices in my life. He makes me want to live life out loud, money or no money, and I think he truly enjoys my company. That makes me feel good about myself, and that is a rare and valuable commodity. So I'm not doing this just for you, as romantic as that would sound. I'm doing this for him, and so in a way, I'm doing it for myself."

She held his gaze a while. The sunset made one side of his face golden, the other side was hidden in shadow. Rose to her feet, lifted his chin and kissed him, lightly, sweetly, completely, and smiled. He smiled back.

She turned to the edge of the deck.

"Jane! Jane, time for bed!"

From the dark waters, he waved and began to slosh to shore as the last of the sun sank deep under the horizon.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""

The house was grand, ornate in some places, minimalist in others. It was as if Walter Mashburn didn't know which style he preferred and played the field, so to speak, nailing each style in each room with polish and ease.

Lisbon found it a little schizophrenic, but thought that might just be a part of the package.

"I've stepped up the security detail so you both can sleep well tonight. Teresa, I've picked this room for you…" He pushed open a set of elaborate double oak doors, revealing a bedroom larger than her apartment. It was a study in neutrals - creams and taupes and whites, with a huge Victorian four-poster bed and more ruffles than an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras.

"Uh, wow…" she said as she moved into the room. "Really, Walter, you shouldn't have…"

"I know, I know. The opulence is daunting. Get over it." He leaned in closely. "There's a Jacuzzi in the ensuite…"

"Thanks." She turned. "And Jane?"

Jane looked from Lisbon to Mashburn, smiling and the tall man clapped him on the shoulder.

"Patrick's coming with me. Unless of course, you want him in _here_…" He waggled his brows.

"With_ you_ will be fine." Her green eyes flashed. "Thank you, Walter. He'll need a shower, but don't let him out until he's fully dressed. And if you could lend him a pair of PJ's, that would be great."

"Yes, mom. I'll take care of him. We'll have fun, won't we Patrick?"

"That depends." Jane smiled again. "Are there any bats in your shower?"

"No bats. Rats though. But I keep them locked up under the sink, so if you need anything under there, let me know, and I'll get it."

Jane thought about that for a moment. "Fair enough."

Lisbon sighed. "Okay, Walter. Just…just be careful, be wary, and call me if you need anything."

"_Anything?"_

"Good night, Walter."

"Good night, Teresa."

"Night Jane."

The consultant pointed to his forehead.

She sighed, tried not to look at Mashburn, and stood on tiptoe to kiss Patrick Jane on the forehead.

He grinned at Mashburn like a little boy.

Together, the two men turned and Teresa Lisbon closed the door, reluctantly, behind them.

""""""""""""""""""""""""

"So, Patrick," said Mashburn as they made their way down the long hall toward the West Wing of the house. "What's it like being crazy? I mean, compa**red** to normal, _your_ normal, which is understandably crazier than most."

"Oh, I dunno," said Jane, busy taking in the paintings, photographs and strange collections that adorned walls of the corridor. "Alright, I guess. A bit like hover-surfing."

Mashburn glanced at him. "Hover-surfing? I've never heard of that."

"Me neither. Did you **shoot** all these?"

"**Shoot **as in with a camera, or **shoot **as in with a rifle?"

"Rifle."

Above them were animal heads, trophies of safaris from exotic locations all over the globe. They sta**red** out with glassy eyes.

"Actually, none of them. They came with the house. Most of the furniture did as well. I just never ca**red** to change anything. I could never make up my mind. Why? Are they talking to you as well as my **dead** groundskeeper's wife?"

"Oh no. They're just creepy."

There was a white-tailed deer just above their heads. A beautiful doe, and Jane stopped to stare at her, **r**each**ed** up a hand as if to stroke her muzzle.

"Bang bang bang," he said softly.

"Patrick?"

"Why would someone do this?"

"Well, for the sport, I suppose…"

"The sport…of killing…"

Tyger tyger burning bright

_I don't like them, daddy._

"I don't like them either, honey."

"What's that, Patrick?"

But Jane was silent.

And finally, they came to a halt in front of a set of ebony doors and Mashburn pushed them open with a flourish and marched into the room. It was very tastefully decorated, with cherry wood furniture, heavy draperies, and a great expanse of windows. The fabric was lush, the polished wood gleamed, and the walls were painted a deep rich shade of **red.**

"Okay, Patrick, this is where I actually live and do much of my work. It's a suite, but it's more like an apartment so there are two bedrooms. Both with king beds, naturally, so you can take your pick. I don't know if you're much of a TV watcher, but the TVs are hidden in the desks. You press a button, the screen rises up, you press it again, the screen sinks down. Sometimes, I just like to play with the buttons…"

He moved over to a grand dresser, pulled open a drawer.

"Teresa asked me to pick out some pyjamas for you. They've never been worn, honest. I generally sleep in the nude - you know how it is being a bachelor. Well, a _serial_ bachelor in my case. They're silk, imported from Bhutan." He turned, holding a bolt of elaborate material in his hands. "I liked the pattern. Dragons and phoenixes and all that…."

Dragon and phoenix on **red **silk…

Mashburn looked up. "Patrick?"

Jane was still standing in the doorway.

The walls were **red.**

"Patrick, do you want to pick your room?"

A deep,** angry shade of red. **

"Come on in, pal," said Mashburn. "It's nice, honest."

The** red **of wine and roses, dragons and phoenix** and blood **antelopes and dahl sheep and deer and wild boar with **glassy eyes**

_Daddy, said Charlotte. I don't like it in here._

"Me neither," said Jane.

_Can we go now?_

"Patrick, is anything wrong?" Mashburn was moving towards him, hand outst**r**etch**ed**. "Can I get you something, anything?"

His voice was distant, like an echo, and the walls were** oozing with life, like the inside of a living body, pulsing and wet.**

Mashburn touched his arm and Jane looked at him, sta**red **at him, at the** gash that was spreading across his throat, spilling blood down his red polo shirt. Blood seeping across his chest, the red shirt in tatters, slivers of white bone against the pinkness of the lungs…**

"Patrick, are you alright?"

The **gash bubbled** as he talked.

"I'm sorry," whispe**red **Jane. "I tried to stop him. But he wasn't there. I thought he was there, but he wasn't…"

"It's okay, it's okay. What do you need me to say?"

"If I had stopped him, you wouldn't be **dead**."

"But I'm not **dead**, Patrick."

"You will be."

Mashburn moved past him to step into the hall. _"Teresa!" _he called loudly. _"Teresa,_ I'm afraid we need you already!"

And so that night, Patrick Jane slept on a mattress on the floor in Teresa Lisbon's cream-colou**red** room, and dreamed of **blood red** tides and sand castles and** dead** groundskeeper's wives and deer.

Neither Teresa Lisbon nor Walter Mashburn slept at all.

_To be continued…_


	7. Chapter 7

**a **_**R**_**oad lEss travele**_**D**_

_**Chapter 7: the tide is high**_

They set out that morning after a light breakfast. Neither Lisbon or Mashburn had much of an appetite, and Jane had been delighted to dig into a meal of scrambled eggs, waffles, toast and tea, but after only a few bites, he had pushed his plate away and left the table. Apparently, the cockroaches in his food were unacceptable.

No one, it seemed, had had a good night.

And so, they followed Walter Mashburn down to the boathouse, which was the size of most California homes, and subsequently, 'the boat'. She had seen it once before, over a year ago when it held both Mashburn and a nameless blonde, but had been totally unprepared for the sheer power of the thing. He had called it a 'Go-fast' Boat, but knew little more about it except that it was fast. In fact, it was like a racehorse, built for speed, agility and power, and likely cost more than the GNP of some small countries.

The sky was clear, the waves high and it took almost 2 hours before the island came into view. She wondered if it was in fact far enough from the coast as to be in international waters. That would be problematic in some ways, yet at the same time useful. The CBI had no jurisdiction in international waters, so Jane would be safe from prosecution, but then again, if Red John found them, they'd be on their own. It was a dual-edged sword, but she was willing to take the risk. She was still running on impulse, and was only now beginning to formulate a plan. She wished Jane could help with that. He was good with things like that.

She watched him, sitting in the prow of the boat, leaning out over the water, eyes closed. He had been quiet since she woke him early this morning, and in fact, he'd almost seemed drugged. She wondered if he had been on any meds in the hospital, and if there mightn't be some side effects as he came off them. Again, she wished she'd paid more attention to such things. She wished she had a mind that hoarded details like that.

Stranger still was the fact that Mashburn was quiet too, and she hoped he wasn't beginning to regret his offer of help. If he complained to anyone, anyone at all, it would compromise their safety, and that would be bad for all of them. She'd have to talk to him about it soon.

The island was small compared to some, but large enough to fit a great house, a guesthouse, a boathouse, a pool house with three pools, a tennis court, a skeet range and a helicopter pad. She shook her head. She had really no idea when it came to wealth. She was happy to have a DVD player.

Tall square cliffs grew out of the ocean on three sides, but the island dipped to the south, offering a small patch of sand beach that served as a jetty for the boats. Mashburn guided the vessel in close, before hopping out and wading thigh deep to bring the boat to shore. She could see cameras on poles everywhere, roving and watching and she felt a rush of adrenalin. Her Glock was in its holster at her hip, she had a second strapped to her ankle, and she was relatively sure Mashburn was packing as well. If Red John came, he'd have his work cut out for him.

No pun intended.

Mashburn moved round to the side and held out his hand. She took it, not needing the help, but allowing him to feel strong and in control. This was his island. It was only because of his kindness that they were there.

Her feet sank immediately into the warm white sand, and she wished that they were here under different circumstances. It was beautiful, a regular Californian paradise. She turned and shaded her eyes to look for Jane. He hadn't left the boat.

Mashburn waved him out.

"C'mon, Patrick. I'll show you the house."

Jane shook his head.

"Trust me, Patrick. There are no bats, there are no rats, there are no cockroaches. There isn't even any staff. There's only us."

He shook his head again. There was something in his eyes and she remembered Walter's words from the night before.

An anchor of reality.

"Jane," she called over. "Do you see something?"

He nodded.

"Tell me what you see."

He made a face, shook his head again.

"Tell me what you see and I will tell you if it's real."

He thought for a moment, then motioned for her to come back to the boat. Mashburn rolled his eyes, but she did as Jane asked, leaned in close to hear.

"There are about twelve people on the beach," he said softly in her ear.

She looked around, then back at him. "There's only the three of us."

"They look like they're from the 1920s. I think they've drowned. Maybe there was a shipwreck?"

"Maybe there _was_ a shipwreck, Jane, but trust me, there are no other people on the beach."

"I wish I could believe you."

"Believe me, Jane. They're not there. Your mind is deceiving you."

"Hm." He cocked his head at her. "That's what Sophie said. She said my mind is very active and it likes figuring out ways to trick people, myself included."

_Damn that Sophie Miller._ She was bound to make an appearance sooner or later. Maybe she would go for Walter.

Jane went on.

"But tell me, Lisbon, how do I know when my mind is working rightly or when it's deceiving me? I find that very confusing right now. For example, how do I know that this beach is a real beach, not the edge of a cliff? Or a volcano pit? It's very hot. It could be a volcano pit. And how do I know that you are real and not just my psychosis telling me Teresa Lisbon is taking me for a boat ride on a beach? Which is very lovely, I must say, but if it's a volcano pit, not so lovely."

He was so very earnest, almost childlike, no hint of guile or game and she realized that he was likely as raw as she would ever see him. No mask, no armor, no layers, just earnest questions, the struggle and life. And she also realized that right now, she wanted to kiss more than his forehead. She took a deep breath and pushed it out of her mind.

"Well, I guess you have to trust your other senses. You may see these people, but can you hear them? Are they talking?"

He listened, looked back at her. "Yep."

_Damn._ "Can you smell them, feel them, taste them?"

"Hm." He pondered this. She was on to something.

"Okay, where's the nearest person?"

He made a little pointing motion with his finger. Lisbon swallowed. The 'person' was very close.

She turned and sloshed over to where he was pointing, ignoring Mashburn as he rolled his eyes again and folded his arms across his chest. Compassion was obviously not his strong suit. To tell the truth, it had never been hers either. Things were just different now.

"Here? Right here?"

"Yes, you're almost on top of her."

"So, I could touch her if I wanted to."

"I wouldn't. She doesn't look all that pleasant."

"But I could if I wanted."

"She's irked, Lisbon. She's staring at you, without any eyes. She has no eyes, Lisbon, just sockets."

"How can she stare at me when she has no eyes?"

He wrinkled his nose, but did not answer.

"What if I did this?"

She swung her arm and Jane winced.

"Oh my…"

"Did my arm hit something or did it go right through?"

"Aah…"

She took that as his answer, and began flailing her arms wildly in the air.

"No, no, don't!" moaned Jane. "She doesn't like that. Ooh, she's mad now…"

"And? What's she doing Jane?"

"Staring at you."

"But she has no eyes. And my arms went right through her, so what does your mind and all of your senses tell you about that? Just like yesterday, with Charlotte, with the red and blue man?"

He thought for a moment.

"That she's not really there."

"Good Jane. Very good. Your mind is tricking you into seeing people that are not there."

He frowned, deep in thought, before hopping out of the boat and onto the shore. He marched to the center of the beach and began to clap his hands.

"Attention, ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention please?"

She could feel Mashburn's eyes on her, wanted to crawl under a coconut.

"Thank you. Now, I have an announcement for all of you dead people on the beach – I regret to tell you that you are not real and must vacate the premises at once. This is a private beach and you are not welcome. Yes, yes, I understand that there was a shipwreck, but that was almost a hundred years ago and there's nothing to be done about it now."

She shook her head. 'Therapy' was harder than it seemed.

"San Francisco is just an hour south. If you leave now, you should be there in time for tea." He clapped his hands together again. "We've got that now, have we? Wonderful. Lovely. Bye bye, now. Be safe, be well."

He turned to look at Mashburn.

"You too, mister. Off you go. This is no place for dead people."

Mashburn stared at him. "I'm not dead, Patrick."

"Oh. Right. Not yet. Sorry." He sighed and he turned to Lisbon. "That went well, Lisbon. Thank you."

"You're…welcome…"

He glanced back at Mashburn, the bright eager smile on his face once again. "Speaking of tea…?"

The businessman glared at her, turned and marched off towards the great house.

She grabbed Jane's arm and followed.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

She had liked the great house at once.

Completely different from the mansion on the mainland, it was bright, open and airy, with windows facing every direction and wood the colour of sand. It was still opulent, but in a New England sort of way, and she found herself wishing again that she could be here under different circumstances.

And there were no red rooms in sight.

After a light lunch and a cup of tea, Jane had gone exploring, and Mashburn had shown her the security room. A panel of nine screens constantly scanned the island, from the cliffs to the beach, from the helicopter pad and the tennis courts to the buildings. It was different from the system at the CBI, but she caught on quickly, and within minutes, she was able to switch cameras, computers and screens like a pro. There were perimeter alarms in place as well, although if one were tripped, it would take a long time for a security detail to arrive. Mashburn was working on the logistics of that very thing when she decided to dive in.

"Walter?" she asked finally and he looked up from his computer. "Are you sure you're okay with all of this?"

"Teresa, we went through this last night."

"I know, I know, but you've been quiet all morning and I don't know why."

He studied her a long moment, then pulled his chair up closer to hers so that they sat knee to knee. His face was earnest and right now, the billionaire mogul looked like a little boy. _What was it with her and these brilliant boys?_

"Teresa, have you ever considered the possibility that he's not as crazy as you think?"

She laughed, and her grin tugged into the corner of her cheek. "Walter, you heard him on the beach. He's seeing dead people."

Mashburn nodded. "And maybe… he's seeing dead people."

"What? What are you getting at?"

"Maybe he's really psychic. Maybe he really sees the things he says he sees."

"And maybe he's just crazy, Walter."

"Is that easier for you to believe? I mean, how would he know about Rosanna dying under that tree?"

She knew where this was going. "Walter, Jane's good at reading people, putting things together, giving just enough information to let people jump to their own conclusions. It's called cold reading."

"So you think he's playing us?"

"No, no, that's not what I meant—"

"So then, how would he know?"

She sighed. "I don't know, Walter. I just don't know."

He sat forward. "For most of human history, people with epilepsy were thought to be demon possessed. People who used natural remedies were called witches. We don't know everything about this world we live in, Teresa. How can you be so sure about what you're saying?"

"Walter—"

"Last night, he said I was going to be killed. He said, "If I had stopped him, you wouldn't be dead." He said it again today, on the beach."

She reached for his hands. "Walter, he's crazy."

"And what if he's not?"

"You're letting your imagination get away with you. Jane fired three bullets into a shopping mall, thinking he had just killed a gruesome, terrible man." She leaned forward, her hair sweeping over her shoulders. "He's cracked, Walter. He's finally cracked. We just need to try to put the pieces back together in some way, but I don't know if he'll ever be the same. I just don't know."

He held her gaze for a long time.

"You're right," he said finally. "I'm just being paranoid. Of course he's crazy. It's not like he's seen any one of _your _dead relatives or anything, right?"

_That…that's my dad you're describing…_

"Right." She tried to smile, but it was unconvincing.

"And he doesn't know about these new faces appearing around Sacramento, does he?"

_Well, there's a bloody face on the wall over there. _He had said as much two nights ago._ Red John I presume, but I don't know. It's frowning, not smiling, so that's a little weird…_

"No," she said quietly. "He doesn't know about those."

"Okay, I'm convinced. He's nuts. I guess I'm supposed to feel better." And he smiled at her, with his mouth, not his eyes. He didn't believe it any more than she did.

Suddenly, there was music, and both of them looked up. Beautiful music from a well-tuned piano, and Mashburn smiled again, this time for real.

"He's found the Steinway!" he exclaimed. "Damn! I didn't know that boy could play."

Her own eyes grew round. "Neither did I…"

And they followed the sound of the music up through the maze of the great house and found him in a large room with high windows and skylights and views of the ocean that took her breath away. A shiny black baby grand piano was the only thing in the room, and he sat with eyes closed, his fingers slow dancing over the keys and she was mesmerized.

It appeared Mashburn was as well.

"Bach," he said softly over her shoulder. "_Prelude in C, The Well-Tempered Clavier, _Book 1. He's remarkable."

She moved into the room, slipped in next to him on the bench to watch and listen, entranced.

It came to a lovely, lilting halt. His eyes were still closed as if still hearing it.

"That was beautiful," she said.

His eyes flickered open. "Oh Lisbon. Hello."

She grinned her trademark lop-sided grin. "You never told me you played. All these years, you never said a word."

He frowned. "Play? Play what?"

"The piano, silly."

He looked down. "I don't play the piano."

There was silence for a moment.

"Jane, you were just playing the piano. You were playing… what was it?"

"Bach," said Mashburn. "Prelude in C."

"What? No, not me. Upright bass, sure. A sweet walking bass line in 3:4 time, absolutely but the piano? Not a chance. And Bach? I couldn't play Bach if I tried. My wife played though. She loved Bach. In fact, I bought her a Steinway, very much like this when we moved into the house in Malibu. We had a perfect place for it, by this set of large windows with a great view of the ocean."

He smiled to himself now as he bent back to the keys. "Me, I can't play a note…"

And with that, he began anew Bach's Prelude in C from The Well-tempered Clavier, Book 1 and he played.

Like magic.

Mashburn's face went cold, and he turned and left the room.

She swallowed, blew out a deep puff of air.

"Jane?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you leave _St. Sebastian's?"_

"Hm?"

"Why did you leave _St. Sebastian's?"_

His expression clouded over. The music didn't stop, but it slowed, ever so slightly.

"He told me to."

"Who? Who told you to?"

"Red John."

Took a deep breath. "Red John told you to leave _St. Sebastian's?"_

"Yes."

"Red John was _**in **__St. Sebastian's?"_

"Yes."

"When?"

Finally, he stopped the music and looked up. It was the glassy-eyed look she had seen far too many times lately, and it chilled her to the bone.

"The day before I left. Dr. Silverston wasn't in and Red John took his place. He said he was bored and wanted to play and that if I didn't get myself out of there, he would kill you next. He said he knew where you lived and that getting into your apartment was a piece of cake, which of course, we all know it is. He said he wouldn't stun you or slit your throat. He said that would be too kind. He would cut you open and pull out your insides while you were still aware. He can do that, you know. He did that to my wife. Not to Charlotte, thankfully. But to Angie, yeh. I tried to put them back, put her back together, but it was too late. Everything was so sticky. Blood was everywhere. It didn't work for her, so I know it won't work for you."

She had no words for him.

"And so I left. It wasn't very hard, either. Psych wards, prisons, they're essentially the same thing. People never think outside of the box. Me, I live outside the box, so it's no trouble."

He smiled, shrugged and went on.

"It was a long walk. But Charlotte was with me. She knew the way. She loves the water. She should have been a mermaid."

Dark and light. Death and life. Despair and hope. Blood Red and Sky Blue. And she realized that for Patrick Jane, sanity lived in the bland neutral colours somewhere in between.

She took a deep breath.

"Jane, how did you know it was Red John?"

"Oh. He was the same man."

"The same man?"

"Yes, the same man I shot in the shopping mall."

Her throat had grown tight as he set about breaking her heart, once again.

She reached out and took his hand.

"Jane, there was no man in the shopping mall…"

And she saw it in his face, the sudden sickening realization of something forgotten and not easily recalled. It was terrible and tragic as he understood what she was saying. What in fact, it meant.

He lowered his eyes, stared at the keys.

"That's right," he said softly. "There was no man…"

They sat like that for some time, before he rose to his feet, leaned in and did something he had never done before.

He kissed her forehead. It was a soft kiss, soft and sad, and he let it linger a while before breaking away and quietly leaving the room, taking most of the air with it.

She dropped her head into her hands and wept. Just like in the hospital, she let the tears come, because keeping them in would drown her as surely as the ocean. There was no help for him, none for her, nothing for either of them but life spent in boxes of one sort or another, and that, that was a prospect worse than death.

_Life's a bitch. Then you die._

She had a T-shirt with that slogan on it, stuffed in a bottom drawer in her bedroom.

_He said he knew where you lived and that getting into your apartment was a piece of cake, which of course, we all know it is._

He had left St. Sebastian's for her.

Left the one place he could be safe, for her.

"Damn you, Jane…"

Left and walked 33 miles, for her, with only his dead daughter as a guide.

She sighed, wiped her tears from her eyes and tried to breathe again, as if life would go on. As if anything would ever be the same. She shook her head at the thought.

33 miles through farmland, interstates and residential tracts, with only his dead daughter as a guide.

Paused, frowned, thought.

33 miles with his dead daughter as a guide.

…_maybe he really sees what he says he sees…_

Charolotte was an awfully good guide, for a dead girl…

…_maybe he's not crazy…_

"Damn you, Walter…"

Her phone rang.

She took a deep breath, pushed her hair off her face and pulled out her phone.

It was Cho.

"Boss—" he started but she cut him off.

"Hey," she said. "I was just gonna call you. I think we're being set up."

"What?" he asked, his usually curt voice now tense. "By whom?"

"I don't know. I need you to check something for me."

"Shoot."

"Check out the staff at _St. Sebastian's_. See if there were any interim docs in there last week, most particularly the day before Jane left. I want you to find out if anyone filled in at any time for Dr. Silverston, and if so, who he is and where we can get a hold of him for questioning."

There was silence on the other end.

"Cho? Did you hear me?"

"I heard you, boss. About that…"

"What about that, Cho?"

"The reason I was calling."

"Cho?"

"It's Dr. Silverston…"

"_Cho…"_

"Dr. Silverston is dead."

_To be continued…_


	8. Chapter 8

**a **_**R**_**oad lEss travele**_**D**_

_**Chapter 8: call me**_

"Dead?"

"Yeah. His body was found in his apartment this morning. Been dead for several days. Multiple stab wounds. Looks like Red John's work."

She couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.

_Maybe he's not as crazy as we think…_

Cho went on.

"His body was drained of most of its blood. Forensics is running the DNA screen to see if it matches the blood on the clinic wall and DoJ door."

_Maybe he really sees the things he says he sees…_

"La Roche is having us followed, me and Rigsby, and there's an APB out for your arrest."

"Arrest?" Her voice was small, weak.

"There's talk that you broke Jane out and are hiding him somewhere to avoid prosecution."

She let out a long breath, pushed her hair off her face.

"Okay… okay. That's fine. Just…just check out the staff of _St. Sebastian's._ I want to have access to all staff files, permanent, casual and locum. Photos if you can get them."

"That'll be tough. It's a state facility. All records are privileged and not just the patients'."

"This is very important."

"Got it, boss. There's one more thing…"

She slapped a hand to her forehead. _One more thing?_ How much more could she possibly take?

"Okay. Hit me."

"There's another face."

She sighed. "Where?"

Silence for a long moment.

"Cho?"

"Here. Inside the CBI. We found it just a few hours ago."

"What? Where?"

"The attic room upstairs. Jane's perch. Bloody faces everywhere. Writing too. _"come play tyger," _in blood. Forensics puts it at about a week old."

She sat, numb and in shock, rubbing her forehead and wishing she were someplace else. Any place else.

"How?" It was all she could say.

"No one's been up there for weeks. No one goes up there, right? But the custodian thought he might give it a clean tonight and found it. It was pretty bad. There were cockroaches everywhere. It could have been done weeks ago for all we know."

"Cockroaches," she muttered. Jane had seen cockroaches in his breakfast. The world was slipping out from under her. Nothing was solid anymore. "Okay…okay…"

"Boss?"

"Yeah, Cho. I'm fine."

"I'll see what I can find at the hospital. And for the record, keep your head down."

She grimaced. "You too."

And she folded her phone and slipped it into her pocket.

They were being set up…

Red John had told him to leave _St. Sebastian's._

Red John had told him.

If Red John had told him, then Red John may have followed him. All the way to her apartment, then here.

But why?

If Red John had wanted him, Red John could have taken him.

She was missing something.

_Come play tyger_

_Tyger Tyger_

It was a poem. Jane had mentioned it awhile back in connection to Red John. He had said it was Red John's poem…

She pulled out her phone again, steeled her jaw, not wanting to make this call. But she had no choice. Something was wrong, and it was buzzing just outside the borders of her mind. Jane would have known. He could see the things that didn't belong and identify them at once. She didn't have that particular gift.

So she dialed the number and waited for his voice.

""""""""""""""""""""

Something was wrong, he thought to himself. He was missing something. But he wasn't worried. It would come to him eventually. All things did, in their time. It was simply a matter of patience, and JJ LaRoche was a very patient man.

Security at the CBI had been breached, yet again. That made four times in two years. He frowned as he recalled. The murder of Sam Bosco and company. The murder of his assistant Rebecca while in CBI custody. The murder of Todd Johnson in a detention cell. And now this.

The storage attic, Patrick Jane's most recent lodging, splattered with blood and faces, both smiling and frowning. He had seen it for himself just hours ago when the custodian called it in, and now he sat, going over the photos, comparing them to the photos from the two recent incidents. For a man who rarely got disturbed, this…this was disturbing.

_All things 'Red John' pertain to Patrick Jane,_ she had said.

He hmphed to himself as he poured over the photos. She may have been right.

The coroner's report had confirmed that the blood on the wall of the fertility clinic and on the door of the DoJ was indeed Dr. Robert Silverston's blood. That also was disturbing. Forensics was running those same tests now on this new scene. It would not likely be Silverston's but still. There were connections here, layer upon layer of connections, like a web, drawing everything into the big red smiling spider in the center.

His cell phone rang.

He hesitated a moment, for his cell phone rarely rang. He was an old-fashioned 'land-line' guy, keeping the digital device because it was protocol, because it was procedure. But very few had his number. Only his mother, the groomer, Director Bertram, and a handful of senior agents.

He pulled it out and looked at the name on the tiny screen.

**Lisbon, T **

Felt the rush of calm sink into his bones. Adrenaline generally turned him to stone. It was counterintuitive, but effective. He pressed talk and leaned back in his chair.

"Agent Lisbon."

"Sir." Her voice was firm, direct. Like the Lisbon of old. He was glad, despite the circumstances.

"How is your shoulder?"

"Sir?"

"Agent Cho has informed me that you reinjured your shoulder moving boxes, and therefore have taken some time off."

There was a sigh on the other end.

"Agent Cho is a good agent, sir. And a good friend."

"I thought as much."

"Sir, Jane's in trouble."

"So he is with you, then?"

"Yes, sir. Though not at my apartment. And not anywhere anyone is likely to find us, so don't even try. There was a doctor at _St. Sebastian's—"_

"Yes, Agent. Dr. Silverston is dead."

"I know, sir. Another doctor. Jane was visited by another doctor the day before he left _St. Sebastian's._ He is convinced that this man was Red John."

He let the comment sit a moment, weighing her conviction against the body of hard evidence. "And how _is _Mr. Jane's mental health, Agent Lisbon?"

She paused now, no doubt steeling her small jaw. He could see her brow furrowing, her little mouth pouting in frustration. She was, he thought, very pretty.

"Jane's mental health is irrelevant, sir. This is a lead, a very important one. You need to follow it up. Otherwise, we're both dead."

He leaned forward in his chair. "There is a threat to you, Agent Lisbon?"

"Naturally, sir. I will protect Jane with my life, and if Red John comes for him, I will stop him or die."

He let out a long deep rumbling breath.

"Does Agent Cho know about this lead?"

"Yes, sir. I just called him."

"And you trust him."

"I trust him, and now, I'm trusting you. If this all works out, and I'm alive in two weeks, I promise I will go to the Governor's Banquet and we can talk dogs all you want."

She was begging. This small, proud, tough little woman was pleading for the life of Patrick Jane. He realized now there would be no chance for them, for her tender, hidden heart was already taken.

It was the way of things.

"Unnecessary, Agent Lisbon. I will help you all I can. With a medical facility, we'll need a special warrant."

"Yes sir. That's why I called you."

"I will expedite that for Agent Cho."

"Thank you, sir."

"Where can I reach you?"

"Nowhere. I'll reach you."

"Very well. And Agent?"

"Sir?"

"Thank you for trusting me."

The line went dead.

He held the cell phone for some time, before making a call of his own.

""""""""""""""""""""

It was late afternoon, and dark clouds were rolling in as he sat there on the cliffs over the sea. There had indeed been a red sky that morning, but it had been very early, so Mashburn hadn't paid it any attention. Red skies were a part of ocean life, the more colourful the better, in his book. Some people were suspicious. He never was.

At least, not until he'd met Patrick Jane.

He lifted the Scotch to his lips, savoured the heat as it flowed down his throat. He hadn't bothered with a glass, not when the decanter was so stunning. He opened his eyes and scanned the cliffs, the ocean, the very distant strip of shore. A small team of security forces were on their way, three highly trained professionals who had made their mark in places like Libya, Iraq and the Congo. One of them had just returned from a brief stint in Indonesia. Then they would be safe and Teresa would be satisfied and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't die at the hands of some madman with a grudge. All because of the prophecy of the crazy man in his house who smiled like the sun, saw dead people and hated the colour red.

The wind had picked up and he turned slightly, spying a figure walking the edge of the cliffs with the ease of a tight-rope artist. Mashburn shook his head. It was Jane, of course, hair and clothes whipping in the strong breeze, feet bare, hands outstretched, and of course, eyes closed.

And for a brief moment, Mashburn wished he had never met him.

Death was something he had always wrestled with. In his line of work and certainly with the number of enemies he had, a premature death was always a distinct possibility. A sniper, a plane crash, a drop or two of poison in the martini. Or even, as in the case of Yuri Bajoran, a big, bad-ass bomb just for effect. But a serial killer with a butcher knife? Now that was crass, visceral, and more than just a little disturbing. Oh sure, there was a certain moxy behind it – Red John's latest victim, he could see it in the headlines - but truth be told, it wasn't _his _moxy, and if he was going to die a gruesome death, he would much rather it be because of something_ he_ did, not as a means to an end in another man's tale.

And for that brief moment, he cursed his friend Patrick Jane and the bloody drama that followed him.

But it was only a brief moment, however, and he took a deep breath.

"Patrick!" he called and threw his hand in the air. "Come join me!"

He could see his friend smile, and within minutes, Jane dropped beside him on the rocks, feet dangling over the cliffside in the same manner as Mashburn's. He looked defeated and a feeling of guilt began worming its way into the businessman's heart. He lifted the decanter.

"You look like you need a drink."

"Ah." Jane grinned wearily, taking it. "Well, that will do for me. What are you going to have?"

Mashburn laughed. "We can share. At $460,000 a bottle, we'd better make it last."

Jane studied him. "The Macallan? _You_ bought the Macallan?"

Mashburn shrugged. "The proceeds went to charity. I get a tax write off, plus one damned good bottle of Scotch."

Jane looked impressed, eyed the crystal decanter.

"Go ahead, my friend," said Mashburn. "It's only money."

So Jane did, lifted the decanter to his lips, took a good, long swig. Swished the golden liquid around in his mouth, closed his eyes as he swallowed.

His brows drew in and he moaned in pleasure.

"Walter… that is… that is…"

"If you say, 'to die for,' I'll push you, I swear."

Jane grinned sleepily. "I was going to say heaven. But I don't believe in heaven, so I had no words."

Mashburn took back the decanter, took a swig himself. "Patrick, do you ever think about the things you see?"

"Too much, obviously."

Now it was Mashburn's turn to grin. "I mean, about being psychic?"

"There are no such things as psychics."

"And money _can _buy you happiness. Methinks you protest too much."

Jane turned his sleepy gaze on him. "Walter, I'm crazy. I know that now. I really, truly know that. There was no man in the shopping mall. There probably wasn't any man in the hospital either. There isn't any conspiracy. That's only my over active ego creating mountains out of molehills, thinking every thing is about me. I'm deluded, I'm destructive and…" He steeled his jaw and stared out at the ocean. "And I need to stop before I get someone else killed."

Mashburn watched him for a long moment, nudged him with the Scotch.

"So? Do you still think I'm going to die?"

Jane took the bottle, shrugged. "We're all going to die, Walter. The question is how."

Mashburn thought a moment before he shrugged in turn. "Well, I don't think you're crazy."

"I do." He took another mouthful, swallowed. "I'm just too much of a coward to do anything about it."

"What do you mean?"

Jane waved the decanter across the expanse of ocean below. "Take that step. Jump off this cliff. End it all. I want to. I've wanted to for years, but there's something that stops me every time."

"So what stops you?"

"I don't know. I like to tell myself it's something left undone, something I need to finish, and of course, I like to believe that to be catching and killing Red John. But, if I'm really honest with myself, I think its fear."

"Fear? Patrick, you drive cars blindfolded and walk on cliffs with your eyes closed. What the hell do you fear?"

Jane lifted the decanter, drank long and hard, almost emptying half the bottle in one go. Mashburn watched him, impressed.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Oh it's fear, alright. I'm a small, selfish, hiding coward. That's what she said, and she's right. I'm afraid that if I do take that step, and there really is nothing out there, beyond this world, beyond this life, then…"

He took a deep breath, stared out at the ocean. His face grew sad once again.

"Then I will never see them again. Never see their faces in my head, never stare at a family photo, never fall asleep with the memory of them in my arms, or the smell of them on the pillow. And they'll be gone forever, with no one to remember them…no one to love them, because I do love them even in death. And so I live, miserable yes, crazy obviously, but I live and I remember and I love…"

Tears began to spill from his lashes, but he continued unaware.

"At least, if I was in hell, I would know that they were in heaven and that they would be loved somewhere. By someone. But if I take that step, and there is nothing…then they're gone forever. I don't want to know that. So… I don't take that step and I live… miserable and crazy and afraid…"

Mashburn looked away. Fought back tears of his own. Damned himselffor being so selfish, so self-absorbed, so callous. He had never loved like that. Had never allowed himself to. But Jane had, and it was killing him, bit by bit. The man was a fool. He deserved so much more.

"Teresa loves you, you know."

Jane nodded slowly. "I know."

"You know?"

"I've made a good living reading people, Walter. Next to guilt, love is the easiest make."

Mascburn shook his head. "That's cold."

"Cold. Yep, that's me." His words were slurring and he turned sad, sad eyes on his friend. "You know what Bosco said to me on his deathbed?"

"Who the hell is Bosco?"

"Sam Bosco. Her old boss. And her old lover. Red John had him shot three times. So… he's dying in the hospital, he pulls me in close and says, 'She loves you, Jane. Don't screw up.' Just like that. Don't screw up. I'm awalking screw up, Walter. Don't you think _that's_ cold? It's sheer luck she's lasted this long."

"You're drunk."

"Oh I do hope so. Maybe I'll get drunk enough to take that step. If I'm dead, then maybe she can finally start living."

"You can't be serious, Patrick. You'd break her heart if you did that. You know that, right?"

Jane sighed. "Better a broken heart than a dead one."

"Really?" And with that, the millionaire reached over and snagged the decanter from his friend's hand. "Good advice, pal. Maybe you should take it."

Jane stared at him for a long time before turning his gaze back to the ocean.

And so they sat side by side as the clouds rolled in. Jane polished off the last of the $460,000 Scotch, and when he was done, dropped the crystal decanter – itself alone worth over $200,000 – down to shatter on the rocks below.

Finally, Mashburn looked at his friend. "C'mon. It's getting dark. And I have the Dalmore '64 in the cellar."

Jane looked at him, expression glassy and dull. "Not the '62?" His voice was thick and slow, and Mashburn couldn't tell if it was the drink or the sorrow.

Or maybe it was a little of both.

"Bajoran. He outbid me by $20,000."

"Bastard," muttered Jane.

"That's what I said." And Mashburn rose to his feet, helped steady his friend as he swayed on the cliffs and together, they began the trek to the house.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""

She sat, watching the screens, hating the sensation of waiting, of biding her time as others acted. She tried to remind herself she was on protection detail, but it was cold comfort, and the constant presence of adrenalin in her system would soon make her jumpy or sloppy.

She couldn't afford either of those now.

On the screens, she could see Jane and Mashburn leaving the cliffs and enter the house. Jane seemed unsteady on his feet, but Mashburn was there for him, like a big brother and she felt a rush of warmth. With only a few clicks of the mouse, she could follow them as they made their way to the sleeping quarters. She saw which room Walter chose for Jane, not a drop of red in sight, saw him dump the consultant onto the mattress, which sank a little under the weight. Saw him turn off the lights and leave, but that was the end of that, as the cameras were situated in the halls, allowing each room its privacy.

She went back to scanning the perimeter when she heard his footsteps on the stair.

"Hey," he said.

He smelled of very good Scotch and she felt a pang of jealously.

"Thanks," she said. "For helping him like that. I worry about him sometimes."

"Ah. He's fine. Just feeling sorry for himself, that's all. He'll get over it." He frowned. "You…couldn't hear anything, right?"

"Too windy."

He seemed relieved. "Great system, huh? Paid a fortune for it. Had some guy named Tollman Bunting run the scripts."

She shook her head. Tollman Bunting. Naturally.

He cleared his throat. "I've got a security team coming in from the mainland. Ex-special forces. Three men. The best money can buy."

"You sure they're clean?"

"Well," he pursed his lips. "_Clean_ may not be the word to describe them. Legit maybe. And yes, they're legit."

She smiled sadly. "Thanks."

"They should be here soon. Set this on auto and come upstairs. Patrick drank all my good stuff, a real pricey bottle of Macallan. The bugger drained it to the dregs. But I do have a second rate bottle of Dalmore's I'm itching to crack."

"Dalmore's?" she asked, tempted. "Never heard of it."

"Google it sometime. Just don't google the Macallan. You'll kill him. Honestly, you will."

She grinned, this time almost meaning it. "Alright."

He offered her his hand and she took it, allowing him to pull her up from her chair and to the left, where the cellar beckoned.

""""""""""""""""""""""

Cho sat alone in LaRoche's office, waiting for the big man to return. He had been summoned, ignored for several moments, then ordered to wait as the Deputy Director left the room. Cho glanced around, expecting hidden cameras to be watching him for signs of guilt or complicity. But they wouldn't read him, he was certain. He was good at deadpanning it. He was a pro.

Finally, the glass door opened and LaRoche shuffled back in. It was funny. When the man wanted to, he was a silent as a cat. Other times, you could hear him a mile away. It was all planned for effect. Had to be.

LaRoche sat down. He had papers and a file folder in his hands. The papers he set aside, the folder he opened and read quietly to himself.

"This is a preliminary report on the blood in the storage room," he said in a slow, rumbling voice. "Male, AB negative. In early stages of decomposition when it was painted on the walls."

"Hm. Collected and stored?"

"Perhaps." He read some more, allowing the silence to drown out all thoughts. "A high percentage of an unusual alcohol in the blood– a banana ethanol. _Pisang Ambon_ cultivar, Indonesia."

"Indonesia?" Cho sat back a moment, thinking. "Hm."

"Agent?"

"Bret Stiles was in Indonesia."

LaRoche glanced up at him. "I am unfamiliar with the connection."

"Bret Stiles, leader of the cult _Visualize._ Gave Jane the address where Krystina Frye was being held by Red John. Left the country right afterwards for Jakarta."

"Wise move." The flickering gaze weighed on him a moment. "Do we know for a fact that Mr. Stiles is still alive?"

"I can contact _Visualize,_ but they won't confirm or deny anything."

"Hmm." LaRoche looked down at the folder, closed it with a purposeful motion. _"I_ will contact _Visualize_, Agent. I need you to follow up on something else…"

Slowly, he reached for the papers now, turning and sliding them carefully across the desk towards the agent. Cho kept his eyes focused on his supervisor, not sparing even so much as a glance at the papers. LaRoche wanted him to look, therefore he wouldn't.

"This is your warrant for the staff at _St. Sebastian's_," LaRoche said slowly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Cho.

"Agent Cho, you are a good agent and a good friend to Teresa Lisbon. Those were her very words. She has asked for my help, and to the best of my ability, I will help her. She trusts me. Now will you?"

Cho stared at him a while longer, before taking the papers in front of him. It was a search warrant, signed by Judge Hardiman. Cho nodded.

"Thank you," he said.

"You didn't answer my question, Agent."

"No. I didn't."

And with that, Cho rose from his chair and left the room.

JJ LaRoche watched him go.

""""""""""""""""""""""""

They drank Scotch in the great room of the great house, and she had to admit it was the best Scotch she had ever tasted. He had put on some jazz, lit a fire and again, it made her wish she had been here for reasons other than protecting Patrick Jane.

The Scotch was making her sleepy. Normally, she could handle a great deal of liquor, but tonight, with so little sleep these last days, she could feel it work its nefarious way through her system, slowing her reactions, dulling her defenses. Walter was watching her like a hawk.

"Don't worry," he murmured, as if reading her thoughts. "I won't try anything."

"I didn't think…" She tossed her head, pouted like a little girl. "Okay, I did. But please, Walter, seriously. We can't. I shouldn't have even had a drink."

"You have serious trust issues, you know that?"

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do, my dear. But I say again, don't worry. I care about you both too much to put you in that position. No pun intended."

"Thank you, Walter," she said, grinning and raising her glass. "If there was any other way…"

"I know." He smiled. "I know."

She looked away over her glass, stared into the leaping flames of the fire. "If only I knew, you know? If I knew whether or not he was crazy, then I would be able to think more clearly. But one moment, he sounds perfectly sane, perfectly reasonable, and frighteningly sharp. Then the next moment, he's totally somewhere else, somewhere…not here. I mean, how do you explain that?"

"I think he's psychic."

She puffed out air between her lips.

"No, really. That explains everything. And I mean everything."

"Walter, please."

"It's an answer you won't even consider."

She leaned forward, feeling the buzz in her head. "Because it's not an answer. It's superstition."

"So? Who says superstition isn't real? Just because something doesn't have a scientific, forensic explanation _yet…"_

"I'm a state agent. I can't be chasing ghosts."

"Women see thousands of colours more than men, did you know that? Maybe more. It has something to do with the cells in their eyes."

She nodded. Jane had informed her once. Just another one of his amazingly irritating useless facts.

The buzzing was growing louder.

"Just because men don't see those colours, doesn't mean they don't exist."

"That's a subjective argument."

"Cynicism doesn't suit you."

"Yeah, well, deal with it." She shook her head, trying to get rid of the buzzing. "What the hell is that?"

"What?"

"That buzzing?"

He stared at her, not comprehending. She looked down, at her thigh.

At her hip, more specifically. Her hip was buzzing.

It was her cell phone. Her phone buzzed when she got a text. She frowned. No one texted her. She got calls, not texts.

She pulled it from her pocket, threw a puzzled glance at Mashburn.

Flipped it open.

Caller blocked.

Pressed talk.

HELLO TERESA

_Who the hell?_

SAY HELLO TO PATRICK FOR ME

She shook her head, trying to clear it.

WE MISS HIM AND WANT TO PLAY

Heart thudding, she felt numb, drained, draining even as she read.

"Oh God…"

SEE YOU SOON

"Teresa?"

_He didn't know where they were._

"Teresa, what is it?"

_He couldn't._

The last line of the text was a simple symbol. Two strokes of the keyboard that could have meant anything from 'I love you' to 'Have a nice day.'

**=)**

She sat for a moment as a cold wave washed from the top of her head down her spine.

**=)**

"Walter," she moaned. "We're in big trouble…"

_to be continued_


	9. Chapter 9

**a **_**R**_**oad lEss travele**_**D**_

_**Chapter 9: consider this**_

**=)**

Lights began to flash in the great house.

She jumped to her feet, hand falling to the hilt of her Glock.

Mashburn watched her for a moment, then checked his Blackberry, scrolled past several screens, turned off the alarm with the tap of a finger.

"It's just the security team, Teresa. They're approaching the island."

"Are you sure?" she snapped, adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Walter, are you _sure!"_

He looked up at her, the picture of calm. "Of course I'm sure. See?" And he held up his phone for her to see the text.

APROCHNG ILAND

WIL HIT SHOR IN 20

AWATNG INSTRUCTNS

CAL

He flipped the screen with his finger to show security footage of a speedboat – a black speck against the darkening sky – racing across choppy waters toward the island. If she squinted, she could make out three figures dressed in black holding what looked to be sniper rifles.

She glanced down at her phone. The happy face was gone.

"Damn…"

It was several long moments before she exhaled, slipped her weapon back into her belt. The adrenaline, she knew it. Jumpy or sloppy. Maybe both.

She threw back the last of the Scotch in one swift gulp and began to pace.

"Okay, I just got a text from a serial killer."

Mashburn sat forward. "What?"

"Red John knows Jane is with me. Of course Red John knows Jane is with me. He set it up for it to happen…"

"Oh…" he stared at her for awhile, mouth open, eyes blinking. "I don't… really know what to say to that."

"But why? Why would he go through all this? And how he got my number is beyond me. Nobody texts me. He's playing mind games."

"Some game…"

"But it's just my number. There is no trace on a text. He's just trying to spook me, call me out, make me run scared. But that's not going to happen."

He watched her frantic pacing, her running commentary like bursts from a machine gun, bit back a comment. He was out of his depth and he knew it.

Finally, she slowed, released a deep breath. But she was still shaking.

"Okay, I'm fine. I'm fine. We'll be fine." She tried to smile but it was more like a grimace. "Your security team has great timing."

"I'll say."

"So who's this Cal?"

He sat back, crossed his legs but the look of worry never quite left his face. "Uuuh, Cal Minyard. Ex-Navy Seal. He and his team came highly recommended."

"By whom?"

"Muammar Gaddhafi."

"Gaddhafi?"

He grinned up at her. "He's still alive, isn't he?"

She shook her head, and Masbhurn rose to his feet.

"I think I'll head down to the beach. Meet up with them and give them the low down." He stepped closer, close enough to slip his hands around her waist and pull her to himself. Close enough to brush her forehead with his lips. Close enough to distract her with the sheer presence of his body.

Close enough to do any of that.

But he didn't.

"Go to him," he said softly.

"What?"

"He needs you."

"Walter, no. I can't…"

"He needs you more than you know."

She eyed him suspiciously. "What did you two talk about?"

He grinned gently. "There is more than one way to show you love someone, Teresa. Believe me when I tell you this."

She frowned, not sure now if she wanted to know.

"He's fighting for his life, and more than that, his mind. You know what he reminds me of? Like two opposite ends of a power cord, charged and repelling each other. What he needs is a ground wire, an emotional connect to something real. And Teresa, that's you."

"Walter..."

"He thinks too much and he's making himself crazy. He's literally thinking himself to death. If you want to save his life, you need to stop him from thinking. Break that connection. Ground him. So to speak."

She said nothing.

"He needs you. And you need him. Go."

"Dammitall_…"_ She closed her eyes wishing he would just put his arms around her so she could forget about Jane for a while, forget about the complications that would surely follow if she did what he was suggesting. But he didn't. And he wouldn't. And she hated him for it.

He lifted her chin, stared into her great green eyes. "Go."

She nodded. It was a little nod, not at all sure or strong, but she slipped away from him and the fire, throwing one last look back as she stepped into the hall.

He smiled.

He was a good, good man and she was a fool not to love him.

She took a deep breath, turned and headed for the bedroom.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""

He is in a powerful dream

_Paddy come back_

He is standing at the edge of a **cliff**. It is night, it is windy and the waves are **crash**ing onto the rocks below. There is a good amount of Scotch in his **veins** and his head is light and heavy at the same time.

It is a powerful dream

There is a** gun **in his hand. He has nicked it from Mashburn's pocket and he will use it if he cannot move his feet. The wind is pushing him this way and that and he knows it is only a matter of time before he stretches wide his arms and lets it take him over the **edge**.

_Paddy listen_

He needs to take that step.

If he **dies**, she may _live._

_Paddy_

He needs to wake up.

If he **dies,** he will never know.

He is _**insane**_.

There was no man in the shopping mall.

His mind, the only thing Red John hadn't taken.

_Paddy please_

And now his mind is _**RED**_ too.

And the gun is_ warm_ in his hand.

_Paddy, no _

He is_** Insane**_

He would much rather be **dead**.

_Paddy,_ she says._ You need to come back_

_Her voice_, just a memory for eight long years, now a whisper like the wind.

There is a shape silhouetted against the moon, a _woman_'s shape and he knows. Knows the tilt of _her_ head, the set of _her _shoulders, the curve of _her _leg. Her dress and hair are whipping in the wind.

"You are not real," he says to the wind.

He is **ashamed** of the gun in his hand, but does not try to hide it. He has lived with **shame** for a very long time. He knows why _she _is here but he is **insane **so it doesn't really matter.

_You need to come back Paddy you need to help her_

He wishes he could touch _her_, run his hand along the curve of _her face_, but he knows now she is not real, she is not there. His mind is **punishing** him, and of all the things he has endured, this is by far the **worst.**

_Paddy, he is coming_

"No one is coming," he says angrily and out loud. "No one is there. You are not real. You are** dead** and **it's my fault**. I **killed** you."

_No Paddy. __**He**__ killed me and he is coming for you._

"No. My mind is **lying** to me. I won't let it. Not anymore. It **ends** tonight."

He feels the **cold **settle into his bones. The **cold **that helps him stay sharp, stay focused like a diamond. A diamond in his toolbox. He will not be moved.

_Paddy please listen to me_

"No."

The metal is _warm_ in his hand.

Another voice now._ Tell me what you see and I'll tell you if it's real…_

"No. Go away. You're not real…"

_Paddy, he will __**kill**__ her too_

"None of this is real…"

_No Paddy. You are wrong. Some of this is real_

His hand is steady. He is steady.

"I'm sorry, Angie."

_Fight and live _

"I'm tired of fighting."

He looks back to the cliffs, to the roar of the surf on the rocks so far below. It would be so easy.

_Fight and live Paddy_

"I'm so tired, Ange."

The metal is _warm _like a living thing. It would be so easy…

_Fight __and live for us, for you, for her_

_**Don't screw up **_**says Bosco. **

He blinks

It's like a splash of **cold **water

_**Don't screw up**_

_Better a broken heart than a __**dead**__ one_

_You're __**cold**_

There is **cold** water on the rocks below

And the gun is _warm _in his hand

He_ is _fighting, doesn't she see? He is fighting right now

_Teresa loves you, you know_

_Daddy hurry_

How can he come back? Does he know how?

_I will tell you if it's real_

_He's coming_

He needs to come back

_When you catch him, _says Bosco,_ don't arrest him… _

He needs to wake up because he's **cold** and he's not on the cliffs

…_kill the son of a bitch…_

He needs to fight and live and not screw up

He's warm not cold and there are no cliffs

No, there are cliffs, but just not here…

_Fight and live_

The cliffs are gone and he's in the house, in a room he's never seen before, standing by a high bank of windows and the silhouettes of trees in the moonlight

For a moment, he sees a balloon, caught outside in the trees…

_Live please_

_Live daddy_

_Kill the son of a bitch_

_You'll choose life_

He's warm and he's alive and they all need him to be that way for just a little longer

Reality does a little spin for him, a slight disorienting of the world, a tilting of the camera. There is a click, like the resetting of a button.

He takes a deep breath, holds it.

Eyes slide to the left.

The doorknob to his room is turning.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

JJ LaRoche sighed and hung up the phone.

Brenda Shettrick was on the defensive, battling what was quickly becoming a media nightmare. Word had gotten out about the faces on the walls of Sacramento, and naturally, the press was sowing fear in the hearts of the citizens. _Red John Rampage,_ said one headline. _Serial Killer Scandal_, said another.

Director Bertram had been unavailable for comment, so naturally, the public focus had turned on him.

He was not a lover of attention. He did not crave publicity, notoriety or applause. In fact, he much preferred the shadows, where he could work quietly and thoroughly plowing the hard ground and rough fields of human nature. People intrigued him. Befuddled him, naturally. But generally, they intrigued him.

And he was not good in the spotlight.

His phone rang again.

Agent Cho. He picked up on the first ring.

"Sir," said Cho. "We're at _St. Sebastian's."_

"And?"

"I think I've got something. A locum doc named Eric Schelling filled in for Silverston the day before Jane broke out. He's a shrink, but works a private practice in LA."

"Bring him in, Agent. We can question him here."

"I don't think that would be wise, sir," said Cho. "Not yet."

"And why is that, Agent?"

There was a pause. "I'm faxing over the photo from his hospital ID. Take a look at it. Tell me what you think."

The chair creaked as LaRoche pushed himself up and lumbered over to the fax machine by the window. It was already beeping, and soon, a sheet of paper began scrolling its way out, a small black and white image staring at him from the page.

He frowned, studying it.

"It's not familiar to me, Agent."

"I understand that. But I remember the description of the man Jane claimed to have shot in the shopping mall."

LaRoche pulled the paper closer to his eyes.

"Curly red hair," Cho's voice was saying. "High forehead, small mouth. Large red glasses."

"Yes, I remember." He let out a long breath. "This is black and white. Am I to assume the colour in the photo is red?"

"Red, sir."

"Hmm. Eric Schelling, did you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"Eric the Red… Very well, Agent Cho. I see what you're saying. Is there an address for this Mr. Eric Schelling?"

"Yes sir."

"And is it a legitimate address, Agent?"

"It is. But not for Mr. Schelling."

"And what _is_ the address for, Agent?"

"It's the address for the Department of Justice."

"Naturally."

There was silence on the line for a long moment.

"Very well," said LaRoche, straightening up and laying the paper down on his desk. "I will issue an APB and bolus on Mr. Eric Schelling ASAP. He is to be considered armed and highly dangerous, and is to be approached only by CBI or FBI agents. Is that acceptable, Agent Cho?"

"Yes, sir."

"I have just been on the phone with the American Consulate in Jakarta."

"And?"

"Bret Stiles is dead. Murdered by rebels is the official government line."

"Rebels?"

"The Tamil Tigers."

"And why would the Tamil Tigers kill Bret Stiles?"

"Unknown. He was stabbed repeatedly, and eviscerated. The word 'Tyger' was carved into his forehead and a smiley face drawn in the sand."

"Tyger? With a Y?"

"Yes."

There was a pause on the other end as his words sank in. He could see Cho's face, serious and intelligent, knew that Wayne Risby was there with him, and he felt an uncharacteristic rush of pride. These were good people. _His _people now.

"Good work at _St. Sebastian's_, Agent."

"Thank you, sir."

And the line went dead.

The big red spider in the middle.

He sighed, wishing he were a religious man. Now seemed to be a good time for a prayer.

""""""""""""""""""""""""

She waited outside his door for several moments, trying to still the racing of her heart.

_Don't do this,_ her mind was warning. Turn and walk away, back to Walter Mashburn and his easy playboy ways. It would be so easy, so thoughtless, so carefree. A diversion, a stopgap in the long, winding journey of her breaking heart.

But it wasn't Mashburn that she wanted. Had never been. There was room for only one man now, and he had spoiled her for anyone else. It had never been his intention, she was quite certain of that. He had never wanted anything from her but her trust, her belief that maybe, just maybe, he was worthy of something more. She had given it and for years, he had run with it, enjoying the freedom she had granted. He had gotten under her skin like no one else ever before. Like a poisoned arrow, he had worked his way inexorably to her heart.

She shook her head. Crazy or not, there was no one else for her.

She tried the handle, found it unlocked. Slipped in to the dark room, lit by a glorious bank of high windows. The moon was out now, casting light and shadow into the room and she tried to see him in the bed, tried to make out the shape of him, but there were covers and pillows and mounds, and she crept closer, her feet silent on the wooden floor.

_Just lift the covers and slip in, _she told herself. The decision will be his. Just lift the covers and slip in…

She reached down and froze to the slide and click of an automatic weapon.

"Hands on your head, if you please."

"Jane?"

"_Ah-ah_. Hands on your head."

She did as she was told.

"Slowly," said Patrick Jane. "Slowly turn and let me see your face."

She did as she was told.

"He's coming. I need to be sure."

She could see him, back against the far wall, but not so far back that a bullet wouldn't send her skull flying in fragments across the blankets if he chose to fire. He was holding a weapon, a nine-millimeter of some sort, but not a Glock. She couldn't tell in the darkness, but it glinted with the moonlight streaming into the room.

"Jane, it's me, Lisbon."

"It ends tonight. Him or me, I don't really care. Either way, this ends tonight."

"Jane, please, put the gun down. You're scaring me."

"You're the one sneaking into rooms in the dark."

"Where did you get that gun?"

"Mashburn. I slipped it out of his pocket when he was helping me back to the room."

"But why, Jane? Why would you do that? You're safe here."

"I'm not safe anywhere. Red John is here and I am going to end this."

She took a deep breath. "So why are you pointing the gun at me?"

"How do I know it's really you?"

"Jane, look at me… Hear my voice…"

"I see you, and I hear you," he said. "But that's not the mark of reality in my messed up little world, now is it?"

His eyes were both glittering and glassy. He was at war, she knew this immediately. At war with himself, with reality and delusion, fighting for sanity but ready to chuck it if it became too terrifying. Two opposite ends of a power cord, Mashburn had said. She could almost see the energy arcing and spitting like an electrical storm and she realized that right now, he was very, very dangerous.

She needed to be that ground.

"You have other senses, Jane," she said slowly, realizing that the first wrong word might be her last. "You can smell me. What do I smell like?"

He breathed in deeply, eyes still locked and focused. "Rosewater toner on your skin. Wood smoke. Good Scotch. And Mashburn."

She swallowed. "Is that what I normally smell like?"

"Not the wood smoke. Not good Scotch. Sometimes Mashburn. Once Mashburn."

"Okay. And you can feel me, Jane."

"No."

She took a step forward. "Feel my hair. Take my hand."

"No. Don't."

"It's alright. I won't hurt you."

"No, stay back."

"You can taste me, Jane. You've kissed my forehead. You know what I taste like." She had taken several slow, deliberate steps toward him. If he fired, she'd never know. "Taste me, Jane. Trust your senses. Let them tell you if I'm real."

She was right in front of him now. To his credit, the gun never wavered and his blue eyes were boring holes into her skull.

"You could be Red John."

"I'm not Red John."

"I want to believe you."

"Believe me, Jane. Trust me. Trust me the way I'm trusting you right now."

And, with a deep breath and a silent prayer, she reached out toward the gun, closed her hand over his.

He blinked.

"The red and blue man is your father, yeh?"

Out of the blue, just like that. It was unnatural.

"What? Y-yes."

"He says he's sorry. He says he loves you and your brothers, and he's so sorry for how he hurt you all…"

"Jane, stop..."

"Can you forgive him, Teresa? He needs to know if you can forgive him."

"Jane, please."

"Can you? Is forgiveness possible for such sins, baby girl?"

"What? Jane?" _Baby girl._ The name her father had called her since she could remember. "What did you say?"

Her eyes were stinging but she blinked them back.

"There are some sins," he began, but his voice had taken on a lilt, a hint of an accent. New York Irish maybe and she recognized it at once. "Sins that are simply too terrible to forgive. The unforgiveable sin, it's called in the Bible. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, can you forgive me, Teresa, for what I did to you and your brothers?"

The tears came and she did not bother stopping them.

"Dad?"

"I'm so sorry, Teresa. I hit you, my little baby girl. And my boys. It wasn't just the drink. It was me. I always was a nasty drunk, even before your ma died."

"I know, dad." She was speaking to her father, she knew this full well. Patrick Jane wasn't even in the room.

"I can't leave. I can't find peace. I can't do anything until I make it right. I need you to know. I need you to forgive me. Please."

"Yes, dad," she gasped through her tears. "It's alright. I forgive you. I forgive you."

"I love you, baby girl. Always have."

"I love you too, dad."

And suddenly, Jane shuddered, sagged back against the wall, his gun hand dropping to his side as if released.

He blinked, looked around in the darkness.

"Lisbon?"

She had no words.

"Lisbon? Why are you crying?"

He stepped forward, reached out a hand, realized there was a weapon clenched in his fingers, dropped it to the ground as if it were a live coal. Gathered her in his arms and held her as she wept into his chest. Stroked her long dark hair, marveled at the silky feel of it under his palm. Breathed in the smell of her, the smell of rosewater and wood smoke and smooth Scotch. And for some reason, he remembered that he needed to taste her, so he pressed his lips against her forehead, savouring the flavour of salt on his tongue.

She lifted her chin, green eyes moist, shining and beautiful, as big as the whole wide world. He couldn't find his way out.

"You're not crazy," she whispered. "I'm sorry for ever thinking that. I'm so, so sorry."

He could be lost in them forever.

She was warm.

She was alive.

She was real.

And something that had been locked away for a very long time, clicked open inside him.

She reached up, slipped her hands into his hair, and his knees almost buckled at the touch. He ran trembling fingers along the curve of her face, her skin so smooth, like silk, like powder, and he realized that he wanted to taste her again.

So he did.

_to be continued…._


	10. Chapter 10

**a **_**R**_**oad lEss travele**_**D**_

_**Chapter 10: love is a battlefield**_

JJ LaRoche sighed and laid the receiver back on its cradle.

With Dr. Eric Schelling's photo now circulating, it seemed that the 'situation' was escalating. Senior Agents were calling constantly. Brenda Shettrick was calling constantly. Reporters were calling constantly. The director of the California branch of the FBI had even called in to say that they were at the ready to help in any way. The CBI switchboard had never been so busy. It reminded him of an air traffic controller in the onslaught of a Florida hurricane.

He, who never got disturbed, was disturbed.

And worst of all, Director Bertram was not answering his phone. This, above all things, was disturbing.

His phone rang again and he stared at it, for some reason, not wanting to pick up. It was overwhelming.

It rang and rang and rang.

He took a deep breath, steeled his nerve and picked up.

"LaRoche."

The voice at the other end spoke. He didn't need to ask questions, just listened. He was good at that. He picked up a pen, made a few notes.

"Thank you, officer. That was _Gnoss Field_, Marin County? Thank you. I will notify my agents."

Hung up.

Patrick Jane had brought him a bottle of good Scotch once, so many months ago. He wished it were here now. He could use a drink.

He wished he had listened to the man so many months ago.

In fact, he wished a good many things.

With a sigh, he reached for the phone again and dialed.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

"Hey boys," called Mashburn as the trio dragged their small boat onto the late-night beach. "Thanks for making room in your schedules for this."

The broadest man snapped off his army-issue cameo mask and reached out his hand. "Cal Minyard," he said. "This is no trouble, Mr. Mashburn. None whatsoever."

Walter Mashburn smiled, liking the man immediately. There was something pleasant about him. He was balding with a friendly face, and his body type was more teddy bear than grizzly. But it was his voice that was most amiable, making him sound more like a politician or a poet than a mercenary. His handshake was firm, however, and Walter put a good deal of stock in the strength of a man's grip.

"Gaddhafi sends his love." The man called Cal Minyard smiled and Mashburn marveled at life and the different roads people took on their journeys.

"Ah," said Mashburn. "He's a twisted old goat. I hope the rebels get him."

"Everyone gets what they deserve in the end," said Minyard, still smiling. "These are my captains, Tucker and Washington. Best men in the field. I couldn't have hoped for better."

Mashburn turned to the others, who glanced at their leader, not budging from their positions by the boat.

"Go on," Minyard said. "He's our employer. Let him see your faces."

The taller of the two stepped forward, pulled his military covering over his head with one hand, reached out to Mashburn with the other.

"Tucker," he said and again, Walter marveled. The man looked like a psychiatrist or a lawyer, with a high forehead receding into a shock of red curls. Not at all the face of a killer. "Pleased to meet you, sir. I've read your bio. Impressive."

And he smirked, brown eyes dancing.

"Thank you," said Walter, pleased with the flattery, and turned to face the third. "Washington, I presume?"

The slighter man stepped up and stripped his mask. He was the youngest of the three and clearly the most nervous, with a pale face and lanky brown hair that fell in a sweep across his forehead. And again, Walter had to smile. The kid looked like he'd be more at home in a science lab that a combat zone.

He turned back to Minyard.

"I'll show you to the boat house. You can store that thing until you need it."

"Wonderful. And we'll need to see your security system," said Minyard as the two men began the trek through the sand. "It's pure poetry what Washington can do with security systems…"

And together, Mashburn and the security team carried the boat up the beach toward the boathouse.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""

"Sir," said Cho into his phone and Rigsby glanced at him from the driver's seat.

He mouthed the word _"LaRoche"_ and Rigsby held his breath. It was late, the roads were black and they were on the interstate, heading toward _Gnoss Field,_ a small public airport that served Marin County and the surrounding area. It was the last place Dr. Eric Schelling had used his credit card and they were going to check it out. The entire state was on alert as the photo of Schelling circulated among the interdepartmental offices. With it being hot on the heels of the painted faces and Jane's escape from _St. Sebastian's,_ there was a collective buzz in the law enforcement circles. It made the adrenaline cold in their veins.

_"Where?"_ Cho shook his head. "Right. We're almost there now. No, Schelling's Visa. He used it this afternoon at the airport. Yes sir. I'll call you when we're there."

He folded his phone back into his pocket and looked at his partner.

"Three men found dead in a van just outside _Gnoss Field._ Cut up bad."

"Red John?"

Cho stared straight ahead, saying nothing.

"I hate this," Rigsby grumbled, and they hit the sirens and the gas.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

See. Hear. Touch. Taste. Smell.

The anchors of reality.

He simply couldn't get enough of her. The feel of her skin, the warmth of her body, the constant movement of her hands under his shirt, across his back, up his spine. His nerve endings were electric, every move sent vibrations that rattled his skull. She was making little noises now, like a kitten and she tasted like salt and honey and rosewater tonic, her mouth like Scotch, very good Scotch, the Dalmare, undoubtedly _(Mashburn)_ and he drank her in. She smelled like wood smoke and sweat and ocean breeze, and green-scented shampoo and she was moving him over to the bed with little steps, her hands insistent, her mouth persistent and his mind was detaching, leaving so that his body could get down to the business of responding. She was overwhelming him and he welcomed it.

_(Mashburn)_

It had been a long time since he had let a woman touch him like this, let a woman kiss him the way she was kissing him now, and it terrified him as much as the cliffs or the gun or the thought of Red John in the moonlight. The heart was the enemy, a battlefield, a distraction to the arsenal of his mind and he had locked it away, buried it deep under years of chains and locks and barbed wire. He was quite certain he had thrown away the keys, but right now, she was hijacking the safe and he could do nothing but go along for the ride. His mind, which had once been sharp as steel, was lost and floundering and she felt so real under his hands and against his skin. And somehow he knew, far back and deep down in the darkened crevices of his mind, like the echo of a once familiar voice, that he needed something to hold onto, an anchor in a stormy sea. She was warm. She was real. She was tossing him a life preserver. He would be a fool to let her go.

_(Mashburn)_

She had turned him so that the backs of his knees were against the bed. One push and he would be gone. One push and _they_ would be gone, for he would take her and run as far as his money would take them. One push and Red John would be a memory and she would help him untangle the mess that was his life and he would build a new world around her that would never, ever be shattered. One push and it would be over. Just one push...

But his mind was fighting back.

_(Mashburn red)_

He didn't want to think about Mashburn. He didn't want to think of anything at all. It was impossible not to think of anything, but he desperately wanted not to think. He had spent the last 8 years of his life thinking and analyzing and rethinking and he wanted to stop, needed to stop. She was helping him stop. Moving him over to the bed to help him stop. Her body would help him stop.

He needed to stop.

_(red Mashburn red)_

He needed to stop.

"Stop," he gasped, through her kisses.

She wasn't paying attention. He'd never known a woman to be so fierce and her mouth was on his scruffy chin, his throat, her tongue darting, tasting to see if he in turn was real.

"Please Teresa, stop."

"Mmhm?"

"Stop." He reached to take her hands. "Walter…"

"What? _Walter?"_ She froze, rolling her eyes up at him, pupils wide. "Did you really just say... _'Walter?"_

"Ahh...yes..."

"You're kissing _me,_ and you're thinking about Walter _Mashburn?" _The disbelief had melted into a snarl.

"I know…it's crazy… but maybe _I'm_ crazy so…" He swallowed, stared hard at her throat, the pulsing, throbbing hollow in her throat. "…it stands to reason…" Frowned as he stared at her throat. "… sort of..."

_Something red about Mashburn, something red about his throat…_

"So help me Jane, if you're thinking about anything other than getting me out of my jeans, I'm going to pick that gun up off the floor and shoot you in the head."

He tried to blink Mashburn away, took a deep breath, lifted his eyes to meet hers. "Lisbon, we need to get out of here."

"You're joking."

He shook his head.

"Damn."

She sighed, dropped her forehead onto his chest. There was no making up for it now. The moment was ruined, might never come again. All because of millionaire playboy Walter Mashburn and insane psychic Patrick Jane. _Men were infuriating._ No wonder women became lesbians.

She pushed herself away, ran her hands through her now-messy hair.

"You sure about this, Jane?"

He nodded.

"Really, _really_ sure…"

"Yeh."

She puffed out a deep breath of air, reached over to tug his shirt down where it had ridden up under her hands. He had a surprisingly nice body. She had so wanted to take it out for a spin. Instead, she laid the palms of her hands on his chest.

"Okay. We'll make a deal. We'll go check on Walter, meet this security team of his, then…" She took a few steps and reached down to scoop up the nine millimeter on the floor. Turned it over in her hands, pouted. She had never seen its like before. Figured. Slipped it behind her back, next to her Glock. Then, she turned, stood on tiptoe and grabbed his ears with both hands.

"_Then_… we're going to break into his cellar, steal another old bottle of Scotch and come right back here, got it?"

He thought about it, nodded.

"You're going to make this up to me."

"Yep."

"You're the magic man and you're going to show me some magic, got that?"

"Got it."

"And I mean _magic."_

He nodded. "Magic. Right."

And suddenly, he smiled at her like the smiles of old - bright, brilliant and breathtaking, just for her.

She growled, grabbed his hand and together they left the room.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

The younger man straightened from his crouch, wiped the blade off on his black trousers.

"Impressive," purred the man called Tucker. His smirk was warm and real. "I've never seen you work before. Well done."

The man called Washington sniffed, tossed his head so that his forelock of brown hair flicked off his face. "It's all in the training. Forensics is an exacting science."

"I'll bet it is." With a swagger, the redhead pulled a pair of glasses out of a back pocket and turned to the man called Minyard. "Boss? Game plan, if you please?"

"Patience, Eric. This may very well be our last symphony, so to speak. I don't want to rush things. It will spoil the music."

The younger man slid the blade into a strap at his calf. "Jane's crazy. It'll be a piece of cake."

"Never underestimate your enemy, Brett. That will be the last mistake you ever make."

The red haired man smirked again, rocked back on his heels. "That Teresa Lisbon is a feisty little thing, isn't she? Full of vim and vigor. Spunk. I like that."

"She's a bitch," grumbled Brett Partridge. "I hate her."

"I don't care what you do with Lisbon, either of you. She's a good agent. Be mindful of that. No, this is about Jane now…" Their leader turned, stared up at the faint lights of the great house high above them on the bluffs. _"__In what distant deeps or skies, Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?"_

Eric moved now to stand beside the older man, shook his head, still smirking. "It's all about the art, for you, isn't it, Gale?"

Gale Bertram turned and smiled. "It's always about the art, Eric. We're creating something never before created. Jane was a worm. But he wouldn't die. He just wouldn't curl up and die, and that tells me something."

"What, Gale? What does that tell you?"

Bertram smiled again. "Always the psychiatrist."

Eric grinned. "Always."

"Maybe it's a God thing. Or maybe it's evolution. The worm grows legs, becomes a lamb, but still won't die. Refuses to be led to the slaughter. Now, maybe, just maybe he's poised to become a tiger. Just like us…"

"That's what you keep saying…" Schelling shook his head, the smirk never having left his face. "Will wonders never cease?"

"I hope not," grumbled Brett Partridge. "I hate him. I want to see him die."

"Well," shrugged Bertram. "Perhaps you'll get your wish. Regardless, it's 'make or break' for Mr. Jane tonight, and that, my dear friends, will be our legacy, our greatest achievement, our 'piece de resistance', as it were."

Schelling grinned warmly as the director continued to wax poetic.

"We made him, boys. All three of us have had a hand in it. We are his creator, he our creation. _When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?_

"We made him." Gale Bertram repeated and stared back at the great house. "Therefore Patrick Jane is ours."

_to be continued…_


	11. Chapter 11

**a **_**R**_**oad lEss travele**_**D**_

_**Chapter 11: eye of the tiger**_

The wind had picked up and the sky was black. It was impossible to see stars through the blanket of clouds, and even though it was dark and she didn't know the terrain, Teresa Lisbon picked up the pace, Patrick Jane trotting dutifully at her heels.

Walter Mashburn wasn't answering his phone.

Down a set of wooden steps toward the beach, past the boathouse and onto the sand. The surf was rushing and spray stung her face like needles, and in the faint moonlight, she could see the imprints of feet, dragging a heavy object up the shore. Her heart blanched at the site.

Boat. Just a boat. The security team, dragging the boat. Just the boat.

For some reason, that didn't make her feel any better.

At some point, she realized that she was alone on the beach.

"Jane?"

She turned to see him in the darkness, standing up on the steps by the boathouse, as if hearing something within. He hesitated only a moment before striding inside and disappearing from her view.

She pulled her Glock and followed.

""""""""""""""""""""""

See. Hear. Feel. Taste. Smell.

The anchors of reality.

The boathouse was very dark, with pale moonlight glinting off metal, fiberglass, polished wood and mirror. Panes of window glass lay against the walls, reflecting eerie shapes into the space. There was the faint creaking of wood in the water, the rush of the wind outside, the beating of his heart in the darkness. It smelled of marine varnish and fuel and the undercurrent of salt. And something else, something familiar, and he knew without a doubt what they would find.

Let the sensations sink down, down to the bottoms of his bare feet, felt it, sticky and still warm, and reality did a little spin for him once again. He could close his eyes and be elsewhere. He could call the madness back, let it free him from what he knew was going down, but he also knew it wouldn't be helpful in the end. He was fine. He was a cat, after all. He could slip through the tiniest crack. He could walk on the narrowest rail.

A line from his wife's favourite musical, and he didn't look up when Teresa Lisbon pulled the boathouse door open and stepped inside. He could smell the metal of her gun, the whiff of gunpowder that always made him jumpy.

"Jane?"

"Over here," he called, and like the cop she was, she moved slowly, with stealth, her weapon swinging and pointing as she moved. "Don't worry, there's no one else in here. Well, at least, no one _alive…"_

He looked down as she approached, to the stickiness beneath his feet, and her eyes followed.

"That's real, yeh?"

"…oh god…"

"Ah. Just checking."

He was standing in patch of moonlight and a smiley face.

"Oh God. Walter?" She swung the gun again, began to search the narrow walkways of the boathouse. _"Walter? Walter?"_

She didn't need to search for long and when she'd reached a far dark corner, she froze. He knew she'd found what she was looking for and without seeing, he knew what it was. Watched her face scrunch up in pain, watched the lines deepen in her forehead and around her mouth as the shock began to set up shop. Been there, done that. A hundred thousand times or more.

"…walter…"

"You can't put him back," he called again to her. "He's too sticky. It doesn't work and bits of him will stay on your hands."

Watched her chin tremble, her hand holding the gun shake.

"The blood always stays on your hands," he muttered to himself. "Even now, sometimes there is blood on my hands. That's why I keep them in my pockets."

She looked up at him, not sure how to take him, where to put the rage and horror that was building up inside her. Been there, done that too. Fascinating how redundant life was.

Finally, she reached inside a pocket, pulled out her phone, pressed a key.

He could hear it from all the way over.

_We're sorry. The cellular customer you are calling is either away from the phone or out of the service area. Please hang up and try your call again._

She let out a little whimper.

Then it buzzed.

It buzzed.

She stared at it as it buzzed.

She pressed a key, stared at the tiny screen.

**=)**

She let out a rather large roar for a rather small woman, and hurled the phone towards a window, shattering it and sending glass flying in a thousand different directions.

He watched her as she fought for control, saw her turn her blazing green eyes on him as if he could explain. Saw the tears break free, saw her chest heave with fury and woe. She was an emotional thing, for all her bravado, and she had always been a bit of a contradiction that way. One moment, sharp and steely, the next girlish and easily pleased. From the day they'd first met, she had presented a delightful puzzle, a Sudoku paradox and he had happily played. But she was clever too, though not as clever as he, and once again, his arrogance had gotten the better of him, never thinking he would fall. He had underestimated her resolve and strength of will. He had been fascinated, he had been arrogant and he had wandered so far into her these past years that now there was simply no way out.

She had shot the lock off his heart and opened Pandora's box. Just like Walter Mashburn and his dead wife, there was no putting things back again.

He loved her.

It was a strange and startling revelation, and he grew heavy with the implications. Once before, he had loved. He had loved and he had failed. This time would be different. It would have to be.

And so he made a plan.

Just like that. They always came quickly, his cunning plans. Some worked, others not so much. But this would. He just knew.

"Help me," he called to her, and she stared at him some more.

"What?"

He bent down, grabbed the edge of one of the motorboats. "I can't carry this alone. Help me."

"You want to_ leave?"_

"Yes."

"You want to leave _now?"_

"Yes."

She glared at him. "Walter is dead. Red John is here on this god-forsaken island. Red John is _here,_ Jane, right _here!_ And you want to _leave?"_

"Yes, Lisbon. I want to leave."

"You _are_ a coward, you know that?"

It bounced off him like Teflon. "There are two boats here. If we take both, then Red John is stuck here on this 'god-forsaken island' until more scary police people with bigger guns than yours can come and deal with him."

"You're a cold bastard."

"And you are Teresa Lisbon, Senior Agent of the Serious Crimes Division of the CBI. Live now. Grieve later."

She glared at him a while longer, before wiping the tears from her eyes, shoving her Glock in her hip and coming to the other side of the boat.

It took some time, for it was heavy, but together, between the pair of them, they managed to get the first boat down the beach and into the water. The speedboat rose and fell with the choppy waves.

"Can you start it?" he asked, looking his most helpless best.

"What? Shouldn't we get the other—"

"No, trust me. We should start it now."

She growled under her breath, climbed into the boat, her heavy wet shoes making clanging noises against the inside of the metal hull.

"You'll need to push me out a little further," she grumbled.

He obliged, trudging into the waves up past his knees.

"Start it, please," he said.

It was a sweet machine, and required only the turn of a key to start the powerful motor. It revved like a racehorse at the gate, but went nowhere until released. She leaned over to him, eyes hard. She was conflicted, horrified yet angry and he was a convenient target. It was understandable.

"_Now_ what?"

The wind was whipping her dark hair all over her face, and she looked small and insignificant against the elements. He reached up his hand to stroke her cheek, caress her jaw, run his thumbs along the line of her throat.

"God, Jane," she groaned. "Your timing really sucks."

"Live now," he said. "Grieve later."

The tears threatened again. "I'm sorry, Jane. I didn't mean any of that."

"I know." He locked her in his gaze. "Live."

"Jane, please..."

"Live, and remember, and love…"

She frowned, clearly not understanding, but his hands had moved ever so smoothly, thumbs finding the arteries under the jaw, pressing precisely and firmly. She let out a little gasp, her eyes rolled back, and she fell forward into his arms.

He felt her silky hair, felt the slight frame of her body slack and unmoving. Breathed in the smell of her, no wood smoke, no Mashburn, no Scotch. Just her. Breathed it in again as if to ingrain her scent in his memory forever. Kissed her forehead, tasted her skin, made sure she was warm enough. His vest was made of Edinburgh wool, he remembered this, so he pulled it off and slipped it over her shoulders. Pulled Mashburn's strange nine-millimeter out of her waistband and into his own. Stroked her face one last time.

See. Hear. Feel. Taste. Smell.

His anchor of reality.

He laid her carefully across the metal hull, waded out a little further, and set the boat free in a southeasterly direction toward the very distant shoreline, standing in the choppy waters until it was little more than a speck on the horizon.

"…just live…" he whispered softly to no one in particular, before turning and staring up the beach towards the house.

He stood for a long time, growing still and turning cold, feeling the water soak up his pant legs and the diamond begin to form behind his eyes. It was a familiar companion, that diamond hardness. He had worn it like a second skin for so many years. He welcomed it now, as it crackled down his body, cooling the fire that constantly raged, locking his heart back in its steel box and turning it all to stone.

He was stone. He was ice.

"He is many," he said to no one in particular.

And like a shadow, he slipped into the darkness of the night.

""""""""""""""""""

"That is _so_ sweet," purred Eric Schelling, and he tossed a piece of popcorn into his mouth. "He loves her."

"Bitch," grumbled Brett Partridge, and he adjusted the screen for a better view of the beach from the boathouse camera.

"That would have been good to know," said Gale Bertram, watching the screens from a distance. "We could have used that."

"I don't know if she's his type." Schelling munched another popcorn and leaned backwards on the chair. "Do you think she's his type?"

"I don't know, Eric. I suppose it makes sense, if I stop to think about it." He frowned, tapped his chin with a finger. "Hmm. That changes the plan a little…"

"His wife was very different. She was…soft. Yeah. Pretty and soft." His brown eyes danced as they remembered. "Very feminine…"

"We needed her. Perhaps we shouldn't have killed Mashburn…"

"Perhaps he'll just have to kill one of us." Schelling grinned. " I volunteer Brett."

"Jerk," muttered Partridge.

"Hmm… Now, _that_ is an interesting thought…"

"Hey." Partridge sat forward. "We just lost Beach 1…"

All eyes turned to the cameras and the screens.

"Beach 2 is out now too…"

Eric Schelling began to laugh, and Bertram beamed at him.

"You see? What did I tell you? Premeditated and calculating. _He _is hunting _us._ Gentlemen we have ourselves a tiger!"

"Boathouse 1 is out…"

"_And what shoulder, & what art. Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet?"_

Sighing with poetic bliss, Bertram turned towards the others. "Brett, Eric. Please, take care of this now. But be careful. He may just kill you both. That would be sad. But not really."

"Poetic justice," offered Schelling.

"Exactly."

The younger man pushed gloomily to his feet, but the red-head stayed put, feet up on the console, a bag of popcorn in his hands.

"Can't he take care of it?" he moaned. "It's so cold outside. I hate getting cold."

"Hey," snapped Partridge. "I already did my job. You do yours."

"Excuse me but _who_ just came back from Indonesia? That was no picnic, let me tell you. The guy had security." Schelling grinned, chewed the popcorn loudly. "But it _was_ warm, nice beaches, great drinks… colourful little umbrellas…"

"Jerk."

"What can I say? I'm lazy…"

"That's enough, Eric. And Brett, focus and clarity," said Bertram. "Remember the Lingchi."

"Death of a Thousand Cuts." Brett Partridge smiled now, and it was not a pleasant sight. "I've always wondered what that would be like. You know, _really _be like. I've seen it post mortem, but to actually do it, perform it on a living person. No, no, even _better_. On Patrick Jane…"'

He laughed to himself without making a sound.

"I don't mean to be a party pooper," moaned Schelling. "But really, do you think we should? What if our little Lisbon makes it to shore? What if the _federales _–" he rolled the word off in a fake Mexican accent – "Get here before that aforementioned Death. I mean a thousand cuts is an awful lot of cuts. It could take days…"

He rolled his eyes over to Bertram, chewed loudly, mouth open, taunting.

"It's _supposed_ to take days. Don't you know anything?" snapped Partridge, and he stormed out of the console room, leaving the other two in silence.

"Tsk tsk, Eric, really. You shouldn't push his buttons. He needs a lighter rein and firm motivation."

"He's a whack job, Gale. Honestly, I don't know why you recruited him."

"He's a kindred spirit, Eric. A performance artist, like the rest of us." The older man smiled a paternal smile. "Now go. Please. I really don't want to have to do this myself."

"Alright, alright," and Schelling pulled his long legs from the desk, put down the popcorn and ambled toward the door. "I'll call you when the cat's in the bag, daddio."

"Always the melodrama, Eric."

Schelling grinned. "Always."

And Gale Bertram took his seat at the computer console to watch the poetry play itself out.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

The wind was stronger now, causing the tall grasses to bend and sway, causing branches to tap against buildings, causing debris to lift and rush in the air. It was difficult to make out what was real and what was shadow. Not a feeling Brett Partridge enjoyed overmuch. He was a man who liked substance. Flesh and bone, blood and blade. Give him a task and he would perform brilliantly. Give him a concept, and he would drown.

The boathouse loomed darker against the darkness of the sky. He could smell the millionaire's blood carried on the wind, the faint whiff of Scotch, and he shook his head. Drink, women and money, the devil's playthings. He had been happy to kill the worm.

He moved slowly now as he approached the building. Ropes and planks and panes of window glass bumped against the cedar siding and he knew he needed to be small, to be still, in order to be invisible. In his right hand, a hooked blade. No killing yet, but a quick jab under the ribs would render him helpless. A slice across the hamstring would work just as well.

He just wanted Jane to know.

That was perhaps the best part of his job. His _real _job. The one-second flash of knowing that came when he locked eyes with them before the blade, before the cough of the stun gun, before the slash. The Knowing that he had the power, the will and the ability literally in the palm of his hand. It was the knowing that made it all worthwhile. Jane had been right about that, so many years ago.

_You see the face first, and you know. You know what's happened and you feel dread._

He had embarrassed him that day in front of three agents. He would pay for that mistake, for the arrogance that simply refused to die. He would _know_, he would dread and he would die.

It would be a pleasure.

More movement, dark movement and he could make out a man-sized shape, huddled against the building. He looked like he was working a small piece of equipment – a cell phone perhaps, or one of the security cameras. Partridge slunk closer. It was hard to make him out silhouetted as he was against the paneling of the boathouse, but it was him, to be sure. He could see the curls rising and falling in the wind.

_Tiger, my ass,_ he thought to himself. Self-righteous, arrogant bastard. He should have killed him that night in the abandoned bank. It had been the perfect opportunity, but Schelling had overruled it in favour of his research and he had been forced to let him live. It had been a pleasure taking Krystina Frye, however, killing her without killing her. Schelling had proven his worth then, using the mind's defences upon itself. Schelling himself was an ass. An efficient, effective killer, true, but little more. He longed for the day the shrink retired, settled down, or died.

Behind a bank of jet skis, he crept closer, pulled the Hallowe'en mask down over his face.

"Hello Patrick," he purred, his high voice muffled by the latex, and his heart soared when the bastard looked up from his crouch, looked right into his eyes and _knew._

He lunged forward, brought the blade down and the pane of window glass shattered its reflection into a hundred pieces, sending shards scattering in a hundred ways. He had miscalculated, he knew instantly. A reflection, a trick of the light, a damned _trick _and he spun but too late as Patrick Jane tackled him from behind. The hooked blade skidded away, slipping through the deck beams and into the rushing tides below. Even though he spent most of his time in a forensic lab, Brett Partridge was still a cop, and he rolled under Jane's weight and onto his knees, snagging a large sliver of glass as he did so. With a swift, savage motion, he swung the shard one way, then the other as he gathered his legs underneath him and sprang forward, the glass held out like a knife.

He felt Jane recoil as the blade went in but Jane's hands were fast, faster than he'd given the man credit for, and as they moved, they took the sliver of glass through both palms, stopping it before it entered his ribs. He closed his devil hands over it and using Brett's own momentum, shoved back.

Partridge fell back and like a mirror, Jane fell with him and even with both palms pierced, the glass moved forward with violent force, plunging the wide flat end of the glass into the black fabric of Brett's sternum, sliding up the flat bone before lodging just under the mask in the soft hollow and exposed skin of his throat.

For a moment, blue eyes met blue.

And for the first time in his life, Brett Partridge _knew._

Swiftly, deftly, Jane moved his hands and the shard, which was red with Patrick Jane's blood, now grew red with Brett Partridge's.

There was a bubble, a gurgle, and then nothing.

Jane crawled off the body but couldn't tear his eyes from it, for it both fascinated and repulsed him. He carefully slid his right hand off the pointed end of the glass, then gingerly pulled the shard from his left, wincing as he did so, marveling at the strings of blood and tissue that went with it. He looked back at the slices in the clothing, the red grin in the throat, the ribbons pooling under the grotesque mask, before dropping the glass with a clatter to the decking. He closed his eyes and sat a moment, breathing deeply, forcing the ice, the cold back into place. He flexed his fingers, flexed his palms, looked at the blood oozing up from the centre.

Reached down and tentatively lifted the mask from the unmoving face.

"You're a ghoul," he muttered.

Pulled himself from the decking, and cast his eyes upward toward the house.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""

And in a long-term psychiatric care facility outside of Auburn, California, a thin woman in a wheelchair looked up.

"Patrick?" She asked, in a voice that had not spoken in over a year. "Patrick? Is that you?"

The nurses stopped dead in their tracks as Krystina Frye, long consigned to persistent vegetative care, clapped her hands together and began to laugh.

_to be continued…_


	12. Chapter 12

**a **_**R**_**oad lEss travele**_**D**_

_**Chapter 12: take on me**_

"Brett's dead," came the voice over the phone, and Gale Bertram sat back in his chair.

"Really?"

"Yes. Really."

He could hear the wind in the speaker, imagined the ugly rush of cold and ocean spray that accompanied night on a small rocky Pacific island.

"_Jane_ killed him?"

"He did indeed. Shoved a piece of glass into his throat."

"Well well…that's very interesting. Did he make a face?"

"_What?"_

"Jane. Did he make a smiley face in the blood?"

"Nooo," Schelling said, over the rush of the wind. "He did not. Was he supposed to?"

"Wouldn't_ that_ have been interesting?"

"Is that what this is about, Gale?"

"Of course, Eric. Once he makes the face, we'll know he's complete."

"This is not good, Gale," sang Eric Schelling on the other end. "Not good at all. You might need to rethink your plan."

"Yes," said Bertram, his even, well-tempered voice not showing any strain. "Yes, I may need to do just that."

There was a long pause on the other end.

"Is that _it?"_

"I'm thinking, Eric."

"Well, while you're thinking, _I'm_ thinking that I'm just going to kill him and be done with it."

"But the poetry—"

"The _poetry _can damn well come out here and take care of this on its own. This is _my _legacy we're talking about, not yours and I'm making an executive decision."

He thought for a moment, stroked his chin. "Fair enough. I'll meet you outside."

The line went dead.

As did yet another security camera. Pool house 1.

"Hmm," he said out loud. "Our new tiger is beginning to burn most brightly. This is very interesting indeed."

He sat a moment longer, before pushing up from the chair. He grabbed the sniper rifle that lay across the desk, and headed out the door.

""""""""""""""""""""""""

_Gnoss Field_ was well lit this time of night, even more so tonight with cop cars flashing their red and blue lights across the parking lot. In fact, it was almost as bright as day.

The van was a Ford E-series vehicle, black, boxy and windowless and its license plates had been removed. A Forensics team was on the scene and both Cho and Rigsby had only needed one look inside to know that it was the work of Red John. It was atypical, however. Three men in a van, slashed in what seemed like a hurry. Still, there were few killers as efficient as Red John, and it was apparent that he had still taken the time to enjoy himself as he did with every other victim.

One was missing his eyes, one his ears and the last his tongue. All three were missing their fingers.

The men had put up a fight, that much was obvious, and it left the agents wondering how one man – even a man as deadly as Red John – could have taken out three in one go. He had stripped them of all ID, cleaned out the inside of the van with efficient prowess. There was no forensic evidence. There never was.

"I just don't get this," said Cho, leaning against their SUV, watching the CSI's do their thing. "One killer, three guys. They never even made it out of the van."

Rigsby shrugged. "Maybe it was like 911. Three terrorists, a plane full of passengers. Most people can't imagine that kind of violence, let alone be prepared for it."

"Hm…"

Rigsby threw him a sideways glance. "You don't seriously believe Jane's conspiracy theory, do you?"

Cho shrugged.

"More than one Red John?"

Cho said nothing. Rigsby fell silent, cursing the implications in his head.

The gravel crunched at the approach one of the Forensics team.

"We found this shoved in between the seats," the young man said.

He held out a business card, bloodied and torn in the middle.

They glanced at each other. A mistake?

Cho turned it over in his hand. _"Mash- Avi-"_

Rigsby grunted, then jolted.

_ "Mashburn Avionics."_

Cho stared at him. "He lives around here."

"Here? In Marin County?"

They exchanged glances again.

"Damn."

And together, they bolted for their car.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

He watched the house from a distance, certain the second man would emerge some time soon, unless he had already. He reached behind him for the pistol, the strange European nine-millimeter pistol that he had nicked from Mashburn's back pocket earlier this evening.

He paused. Was it really the same night? Time meant nothing anymore. Lisbon was gone, Mashburn was dead. Red John's alias was lying in a pool of blood by a boathouse. It seemed that there were no winners tonight.

He fumbled with the weapon and cursed himself, his lack of concentration. His hands were stiffening from the wounds they had received, throbbing and aching and growing clumsy, and he cursed himself again for his weakness. This shouldn't be a problem. It was simply biomechanics. He had overcome much, much worse than splintered palms.

He closed his eyes, drew in several deep cleansing breaths, saw the sinews and tendons and muscles and vessels, wrapped them in his mind, bound them to his will, closed the nerves off to their signals of pain and forced them to yield, yield, yield and obey his will.

He flexed his palms again.

They were fine.

_Be careful, daddy,_ said Charlotte and he looked up to see her, standing in the midst of the tall grass, her wild hair and Tinkerbell nightdress snapping in the wind. It was difficult to make out her face in the moon's dim light, but there were ribbons of silver flowing across her cheeks and he knew she had been crying.

_You're bleeding._

"It's alright, honey," he said to the wind. "It'll be over soon. Don't look."

_He's a bad man, daddy. He's very bad._

"I know, honey. I'll take care of things. Everything will be alright."

His voice caught in his throat.

If only he could have said that 8 years ago. If only he had known.

He should have known.

Her little body, torn into tiny pieces, all red and pink and Tinkerbell green.

He should have known.

He dropped his head in shame.

It was cold, the little hand on his chin. Cold and pale and light, and she lifted his head with barely a touch.

_Don't cry, daddy. It's okay. I love you._

And she leaned in to kiss him with cold, pale lips on his cheek.

And then there was only the wind.

And a figure moving from the great house across the grass.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""

He cursed himself for letting Bertram talk him into this.

Oh sure, it was fun to play with Jane, to drag things out, to mess things up, make him crazy with hints and speculations and red herrings. That had honestly been one of the unexpected perks of the job. Patrick Jane should have slunk off into obscurity after the slaying of his family, but no, the man just kept coming back, and as a psychiatrist, Schelling had enjoyed studying how various triggers had affected him. But now, after seeing Brett Partridge and his throat wide open, well, the game had somehow changed. Patrick Jane was seriously unhinged, and unstable people were dangerous ones. He knew that first hand from his practice. That's where he had met Bertram. They were like two peas in a pod.

At first, it had just been him. Killing was a personal thing, his guilty pleasure, an indulgence, a failing of sorts. The face had been his own little quirk and quickly became a tag, a brand, an icon. Larger than life. Certainly larger than _his _life. Friends would come and friends would go and he was always happy to share. Friends like Orville Tanner and his dear trusting son Dumont. But usually and preferably, he liked to work alone. His the risk, his the glory. A singular pursuit of the perfect kill.

It was his drug.

In fact, there had been nothing like it. The rush, the high, the artistic satisfaction and the pleasure that lingered for days. And then there was the downside, the subsequent twist of humanistic guilt, the withdrawal, the crash, the need, the craving, and it would begin all over again. He was an addict and a sociopath, he knew it full well. But it didn't bother him. He rather enjoyed the irony – the psychopathic psychiatrist. His twist of the mind had led him into the study of the mind and it had only grown from there. And then of course, there was the fame. That, well_ that_ was unexpected. The rush of hearing the reporters on TV, of seeing the flash of bloody smiles in newspapers and clippings, knowing that you were the mastermind behind all of it. He enjoyed the panic of the public, was fascinated by their attempts at mastery by deprecation or association, thrilled when the word 'legend' or 'infamous' was used with his name.

In his youth he had been Eric the Red.

Now and forever, he was Red John.

Bertram had joined him, added his particular expertise into the mix. He was an artist, a writer, a poet, and as they began to work together, Schelling had begun to appreciate the beauty of his peculiar craft. William Blake was Bertrams' favourite and things had simply evolved from there. Also, as Director of the _California Bureau of Investigations,_ Bertram had had connections, he had pull. He could get into things, arrange things, remove things that otherwise would have been obstacles in their path. They had made a great team and had been happy with that, until they began to stumble across others who shared their common interests.

Like Brett Partridge and sweet plain Rebecca. Like Todd Johnson and new recruit Craig O'Laughlin.

There were others, naturally. Many, many others. But with the input of others, it had become complicated, messy, impersonal, and he had grown weary of the largesse of his franchise as other motivations began to compete. Lately, Bertram had become obsessed with Jane in a way that bordered on the compulsive. He kept insisting that the fellow could actually surpass them in style and ferocity with only the slightest prodding and that they were giving birth to a killer that, with his particular skill set, could dwarf them all. It seemed, after what he had done to Partridge, Bertram may have been right.

Too bad they'd never find out. He was going to kill the man the moment he had the chance.

For some reason, instinct led him up the path to the pool house, and the three pools that flanked it. Like lagoons off the ocean, the pools were rocky, landscaped and beautiful. One was heated as though it were a volcanic spring and it hissed and bubbled despite the fact that there was no one in it. The other was a wave pool, and it was entered via an artificial beach, complete with sand and seashells and lawnchairs. The other appeared to be a length pool, and likely had jets that allowed one to swim without moving. Schelling shook his head, dumbfounded at the things people considered important.

It was dark, it was windy and that made it dangerous, and so he slowed and tensed. He had a stun gun in his pocket, along with the trademark hooked blade, but he was carrying a firearm as well. He wanted Jane dead, with he and Bertram off this island as soon as possible. While he was as theatrical as Bertram, he was also pragmatic. A firearm would do the job just fine.

He pulled the combat mask over his face, simply to cut the cold wind that was blowing tonight. He would be less visible as well – he had never been able to get a tan. His skin was as white as Egyptian cotton.

The moon reflected off the water in the pools and he slowed, for the little hairs on his neck had risen. Slipped the safety off his weapon, dropped a little lower to the ground. He couldn't see a thing, but he was a tiger. He didn't need to see. His other senses worked overtime. They were anchors in a stormy sea.

"Don't move," came a voice to his left.

_Damn._

He froze.

"Ah Patrick," he said amiably. "That accent of yours, well it boggles me. Mid-west for the consonants, but definitely New England in the vowels. You must have moved around a lot when you were young."

"Put your gun on the ground and lace your fingers on the top of your head."

"Do _you_ have a gun? I mean, because you killed Brett with a piece of glass. Maybe you don't—"

A gunshot rocked him back on his heels, and he quickly did as Jane had asked.

"Take off your mask."

"Ooh, how dramatic. You remind me of… _me."_ And he slipped the mask over his head to reveal his face, and the red curls. "But you're…over there, sooo…do you want me to turn around?"

"No. I can kill you just as well from the side."

"Hmm. Can you? I mean you killed Brett in the heat of the moment. A little struggle, a little wrestle, a little piece of glass. That's understandable. But this moment? I don't know about you, but there's definitely no heat. I'm actually rather cold. Can you kill someone in cold blood, Patrick? That's different, trust me."

"I can kill you."

"Then…Do it."

Only the sound of the wind, whipping the tall grass, rippling the pools, rustling the shrubs.

"I'm waiting…"

Again, nothing.

He angled his head, ever so slightly. "Oh, it's not quite right, is it? I mean, you've imagined this moment every day for what is it – 8 years now? Every night, you've dreamed about how you were going to kill me. How it would be long and slow and deliberate. Cathartic, really. That's what you're looking for, isn't it, my friend? Catharsis…"

Only the wind.

"But here, with a gun? _Bang Bang Bang._ I fall dead. You win. The end. Meh. There's no catharsis in that. No satisfaction. It's a dilemma, I agree…"

The wind.

"Oh wait! I have an idea! I'll throw away my stun gun, and my knife, you throw away your gun, and we'll go at it, mano a mano. Now that would be cathartic, wouldn't it? I bet you could sleep at nights if we did that. Unless of course, _I _killed _you_, but still, you've got a fifty-fifty chance and you'd feel so much better…"

Silence, for a brief moment.

"You first," came the voice.

And so he did. Slipped the hooked blade from his pocket, tossed it into the nearby pool with a splash. The stun gun next, flung it far away towards the pool house. It made a clanging sound as it hit.

"Your turn."

He could hear the deep breath, and finally, Patrick Jane stepped from the shadows and into the moonlight. Honestly, the guy was a cat. Who knew?

He was holding Walter Mashburn's nine-millimeter pistol, took a long look at it before turning it muzzle-side down, and tossing it over his shoulder into the long grass.

"So that's it?" said Schelling. "Nothing else? 'Cause I wouldn't blame you if you had something else."

Jane stared at him, eyes dead and glittering, but said nothing.

"Really? Nothing? 'Cause…Oops, _I _do…"

And he flexed his sleeve, a scalpel slipping down and into his hand.

"Did I forget to mention that?"

He lunged forward, slicing the air between them and Jane jumped back. He lunged again, and again, and soon they were in the rocks and shrubs by the first pool. And still he lunged, swinging his long arm in great wide arcs, Jane scrambling but managing to stay just out of reach. Finally, the blade snagged fabric and the oversized Tshirt tore at the belly.

Schelling grinned. Not just fabric there, and Jane glanced down to see darkness begin to spread across his middle.

_Be careful, daddy._

"C'mon, tiger." Schelling winked. "Just a scratch."

_He's a bad, bad man…_

"Charlotte, go. Now!"

"Charlotte? Your daughter?"

Jane sank low, coiling his body, eyes locked on the taller man.

"You are nuts, you know that? Seriously? Your little girl?"

_I'm going to cut him open and watch him die…_

"She was sweet. Really she was. Opened up like rice paper. Such fine, delicate skin. And wow, that hair…"

And he lunged again, swinging the blade high but Jane ducked low, grabbing the man's other wrist and pulling him off balance. The blade sliced down across Jane's cheekbone just under the eye and he dropped to one knee, blinking and trying desperately to see. Schelling towered over him a moment, savouring the sight, turning the blade over in his hands for a better grip. He reached down, grabbed a handful of curls, yanked Jane's head up to expose the throat. But suddenly, there was a rock in Jane's hand, and he sent his arm in a fierce uppercut, catching Schelling on the chin and sending him staggering several steps in the shrubs.

Jane was on him like a cat on a bird.

Like a tiger on a lamb.

He struck with that rock again and again and again and again, and when his hand grew too bloody and the rock sailed out of his grip, he continued with his fist, striking the downed man on the head and cheek and neck and chin until the scalpel clattered to the smooth stone beside the pool.

Exhausted and shaking, Jane crawled off the man and sat back on his knees, breathing heavily.

Weakly, Schelling pushed himself from the ground. His face was a bloody mess, but he was smiling.

"Oh…good job… tiger…" He spit out some blood, ran his tongue along his teeth to see which ones were loose, which were missing. "Gale… will be… so proud…"

"Gale?" Jane gasped as his bloody fingers groped for the scalpel on the ground. "Gale Bertram?"

"Of course. Did you honestly think I had only one friend in the CBI?" He laughed, but it was reduced quickly to coughing, more spitting. "Both Bertram and O'Laughlin were mine. You just didn't think big enough. The CBI is a veritable gold mine for psychopaths and thwarted killers. I could name names, if you're interested…"

_I'm going to cut him open and watch him die…_

_You'll choose life_

He could see the wheels behind Jane's eyes spinning. It was so easy to play with this man. It was so much fun.

_I will exact my revenge…_

_I could name names…_

"I was there, you know," he said in his taunting voice. "In the shopping mall. Of course I'd be there, with both Bertram and O'Laughlin running point for me. But then...you knew that, didn't you?"

_Cut him open_

_Good job tiger_

_Watch him die_

_If you're interested_

"That was good, having Lisbon call me. Clever. Surprising. I'd never have thought of it. Brava."

_Sincerely. Bravo._

_don't screw up_

"You were almost clever enough. Almost. You had a psychotic break, right there in the shopping mall. I watched it happen. Very, very cool, I must say..."

_Bang bang bang_

_I die you win the end_

_Daddy you're scaring me_

"I watched you walk, sit, talk to the air. It was so sad. Tell me, what was it that made you pull the trigger? The straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. I'd really love to know."

__There are so many voices inside his head, too many colours all popping like gunfire__

And for the second time tonight, there is a red balloon, floating over the pool…

He ignores it.

"Charlotte, this is the man?"

_Yes daddy. He made mommy cry._

His fingers curl around the scalpel and he looks the **RED** in the eye.

"Strawberries and Cream," he says with conviction.

The red-haired man's eyes grow large and he breathes in heavily.

"...tyger tyger..." Schelling whispers.

Eric Schelling knows.

He knows.

The blond man moves, his hand is quick, and it is the last thing Eric Schelling knows.

And for Patrick Jane, it is cathartic.

He sits for a moment, eyes closed. His hands ache. His belly aches. Every muscle in his body aches. But it is almost finished and slowly, a smile crosses his face.

He dips three fingers in the blood, eases back onto the smooth stone next to the pool.

Begins to draw.

_I love you daddy._

"I love you too, Charlotte. Say hi to mommy for me."

_I will._

Charlotte, all Tinkerbell green and wild wild hair, disappears like smoke into the night sky and all there is left is wind.

He feels the wind on his face.

He smells the salt of the ocean, the tang of blood, the artificial snap of chlorine from the pools.

He hears his heartbeat in his ears.

Touch, see, hear, taste, smell. The anchors of reality.

For some reason, he thinks of Lisbon and he pauses, looks at the bloody smiley face under his hand.

Stops drawing.

This is wrong.

He is not this man.

He is not Red John.

He is not a Tyger.

He is Patrick Jane, husband, father, consultant for the CBI.

And finally, for the first time in many years, there is only his voice inside his head.

He is tired and he wants to go home.

He looks down at the half face, frowns, smears it away with the blood on his hand.

He is not this man. He will never be this man.

He is free.

Rises to his feet, turns his gaze to the great house.

A shot breaks the silence, the high sharp shot of a sniper rifle and he is flung off his feet and back onto the smooth stones by the pool.

_To be continued…_


	13. Chapter 13

**a **_**R**_**oad lEss travele**_**D**_

_**Chapter 13: more than words**_

It is still night, but he doesn't know how long he's been lying there, on the smooth stones by the pool. One hand is in the water, but he can't feel it. It is his left hand. He tries to sit up, and the weight pushes him back down, a heaviness on his left side that has rendered his arm and hand and most of his body in fact, useless. He thinks there is pain as well, but is not sure. He stopped feeling pain a long time ago.

He tastes copper on his tongue.

He wants to close his eyes and sleep on the shore. Charlotte will find him, curl up under his arm and they'll doze awhile before going in. They will be shaking sand out of their hair and clothes for days and it will make Angie crazy, but then again, there is nothing new in that.

_Paddy, no._

He smiles, breathing in the salt air. He loves the ocean. Loves the beach. Loves his home in Mailibu.

_Paddy, not now. Get up._

He waves his right hand for her to come over, join in the cuddle. A family affair. It would be so nice.

_Get up, you ass._

He raises a brow. Angie doesn't cuss like that.

_Okay, so you've been shot. Big deal. Get your lizard brain in gear and pull yourself together._

Mashburn?

_Yeah, me. You've taken out two. You got one left. Get up, you lazy son-of-a-bitch._

He opens one eye, sees their shapes shimmering against the clouds and the purple sky. Angie is wringing her hands, looking both worried and pretty in her French floral sundress, the blue one with the buttercups. She never had nice things growing up. He'd made it a point to buy her nice things. Mashburn is next to her. He has many nice things.

"Am I dead?" he asks.

_Not yet_, says Mashburn. _But you will be soon if you don't get the hell up._

He holds out a ghostly hand to help him.

_Please, Paddy. Please. For me._

For her. Anything for her. Always for her. He would travel to the gates of hell and back for her. He's pretty sure that he just has.

So he reaches out and takes Mashburn's hand. It feels like nothing, like the wind, but it helps him nonetheless and he staggers to his feet, swaying. His left side is hunched and heavy, his palms and belly and cheek streaked with red.

And now his chest, just above his heart, turning Cho's nice T-shirt red. All red.

He hates the colour red.

"Look at you," sang a voice and he turned slowly to see Gale Bertram trotting down the path, sniper rifle slung across his back like a well-healed English gentleman. "Still alive. Patrick, you never cease to amaze me."

He looked around for Angie and Walter, but they were gone and he was alone with the man and his powerful gun and the wind.

Bertram stopped and glanced down at Schelling, his face mangled and body twisted in the shrubs. But it was the bloody face on the stones he studied, a smile of his own playing about his lips.

"You were so close, Patrick. So close."

He looked at Jane, like he had many, many times before. He was such a pleasant looking man. He had such a nice voice.

"You should have finished it. Really, you should have. It would have completed your evolution."

"I am not you," Jane whispered. "I am not Red John."

"No, sadly. That much is clear."

Bertram stepped closer, dropped one hand on Jane's shoulder. The good one. The world spun and reeled like a drunk.

"You could have been so much more. You know that, don't you?"

Jane blinked at him. He had nothing. No words, no strength, no resources, no cunning plan. Nothing. He was bleeding out of many wounds and the red…

He frowned.

The red…

"You know I have to kill you. I really don't want to do that. I like you Patrick. Really, I do."

The red was leaving.

Jane looked off to the east, where the sun was just beginning to break across the horizon. It sent faint streaks across the sky. Red streaks, of course. It was beautiful.

One hand still on his shoulder, Bertram slid a long hooked blade from the pocket of his windbreaker. "You are a very challenging individual. I would have liked to get to know you better. I think we could have been fast friends, you and I."

The red, which had formerly been a prison, a set of chains, an entire paradigm, was leaving.

Poor red.

It was just a colour. One of many in the spectrum of the rainbow. The colour of blood and muscle and sinew and hearts and sunrise and sunset and flowers and potatoes and fire and heat and tides and hair and tape and gold and moons and ponies. Red was just a colour.

It was leaving and he was going to miss it.

He smiled.

"I'll make it quick, I promise? Are you okay with that?"

He was good.

He was fine.

He was free.

"_I'm_ not okay with it," came the voice of Teresa Lisbon, and Bertram froze as he stood, blade poised, shining in the sunrise. "Put that down, sir. Or I will blow three holes in your back the size of my fist. Do you understand?"

Her voice like an angel. A fierce, gun-toting angel. Angry little princess.

Bertram swallowed.

"Ah, Agent Lisbon, I, ah… I am arresting this man. He has killed two officers of the court tonight—"

"Shut up, sir. Put the knife down."

Slowly, Bertram dragged his eyes back to lock with Jane's. "Now this is where we come down to it. Two tigers, we both. And we will burn bright in life, and in death. It is Poetic Justice and it is art. Agreed?"

Jane stared at him. He had no words.

He looked over Bertram's shoulder, to where Lisbon was standing, her Glock raised and braced. Her hair was rising and falling in the wind, her eyes burning like green coals. She looked ferocious, like steel.

His anchor of reality.

Behind her, Cho and Rigsby, both with weapons drawn. His cavalry.

His friends.

And his heart, free as a bird, soared at the thought.

"Put it down, sir. NOW!"

See. Hear. Touch. Taste. Smell.

Bertram leaned in close.

"_What immortal hand or eye, could frame thy fearful symmetry?"_

He **saw** Bertram's arm move, **saw **her finger flex.

He **heard **the gunshots, _**bang bang bang**_

**Felt** the cold heat of the blade in his ribs, **felt** his breath catch in his throat, **felt** Bertram's weight as the man lurched forward,** felt** the weight increase ten fold as his knees bucked and the pair of them fell to the ground

**Tasted** blood on his tongue

**Smelled** the salt air, gunpowder, rosewater

The red was leaving

Bertram is gone, rolled off his body and into the pool

Leaving

Teresa Lisbon bending down

_live_ she is saying _please live_

Her long dark hair falling

Leaving

Gold cross swinging above him

_Please God let him live_

her great green eyes bigger than the whole world

the red balloon floating high overhead

_Our Father who Art in Heaven_

gold cross swinging

_Hallowed be Thy Name_

the dawn sky now yellow and purple and bright

red leaving with so many colours left

_Thy Kingdom Come, Thy Will Be Done_

only one voice inside his head

and finally darkness

_On Earth as it is in Heave_n

with not a drop of red in sight

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

_Three weeks later…_

JJ LaRoche sighed and looked around at the office.

It was large, larger than anything he'd ever worked in before.

It was beautiful, with cherry wood furniture, paneling and shelves that still contained hundreds of books, many of them by William Blake.

It was located in the heart of the Department of Justice, in the center of downtown Sacramento, in the capital of California.

And perhaps the most surprising of all, it was his.

He shook his head and sighed again. Three weeks ago, it had belonged to Director Gale Bertram. Bertram, pillar of the community, paragon of law and order and justice. One of Red John's friends. The entire organization of the CBI was under investigation, at his own prodding, and the infection seemed to have no end. But a list had been found on Bertram's personal computer and the ferreting had been swift and ruthless. They were still uncovering connections that went back for almost ten years.

The victim list had also continued to mount, and it was staggering the profound effect that the entity known as Red John had had on things. It was mind-boggling, the stuff of movies and John Grisham books, and if he stopped to think too long and hard enough about it, he knew the sheer weight of it, the whole wicked convoluted conspiracy, would drive him mad.

For some reason, he thought of Patrick Jane.

He felt heavy as the emotions rolled in.

He shook his head. He was not used to feeling such things. He was a man of the mind, of intellect and reason. What was done was done and he could change nothing with regret or guilt or sorrow.

But he could be a better man. He had promised Teresa Lisbon and her team this. He could be kinder, more open. He could be compassionate and less dogmatic. He could listen and he could learn. Yes, he would be a better man.

He was the new Director of the CBI.

His mind would be reeling at the speed of his promotion, if his mind were the sort given to reeling, which it wasn't. He ran a finger along the edge of the desk, not certain if he wanted to sit. He'd been on his feet all day, with the paperwork, the swearing-in ceremony, the meeting with the Governor. He desperately wanted to sit but once he sat, he owned, and he wasn't certain how he felt about that. For now, the desk was his.

But he did sit, and to his surprise, the chair made no creaking sound under his weight. He pursed his lips. It was a well-made chair. Almost as if it fit. Almost as if he belonged.

From a large brown pocket, he pulled the only personal item to follow him from job to job, office to office, the first and last thing he took when moving around his particular circles. A small framed photo of a little white dog.

He smiled and set it on the desk.

There was a knock at his door and he looked up. His new office administrator was standing there. She was his age, perhaps a year or two younger, with large blue eyes under tortoiseshell glasses, a small pink mouth and neat blonde hair tied back in a loop. She was wearing a brown skirt and beige blouse, and he thought she seemed perfectly competent and professional in her office wear.

In fact, he thought she was rather pretty. But the last time he'd thought things like that, it had ended badly, so he pushed them from his mind.

She smiled. "Excuse me, Director LaRoche…"

But still...

His flickering gaze weighed on her a moment. "Miss Davenport, you may call me JJ."

She averted her eyes. "Oh sir, that is far too forward."

"Please."

She blushed. "If you insist. I um…I have some forms for you to fill out…"

She brought them over, laid them carefully on his desk. As he began to read, she noticed the photograph, turned it slightly to study it and her face lit up like a beacon.

"A Maltese? You have a Maltese?"

Slowly, he lifted his head. "Yes," he said, also slowly. "I do."

"So do I! They're the sweetest dogs, aren't they? I don't know about you, but I have considered showing my little girl. Do you show?"

A smile began to carve into the potato and he tried to restrain it. But it warmed him right to his big potato toes, and he realized that at this moment, he had no words for how he was feeling.

But that was just fine with him.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""

She had no words for this.

It was a beautiful place, she thought to herself, high on a hill overlooking the ocean. The breeze was strong – it always was by the ocean – and she could hear the sea birds laughing and wheeling high overhead, the waves rushing and roaring on the rocks below.

It was perfect. She couldn't have chosen better.

Two weeks ago, there had been a very small ceremony at his house on the beach. Only the closest of friends and family were allowed to join in. Everyone spoke, shared something that they would remember about him and she had been touched by the heartfelt expressions of affection toward a man known more for his appetites than his affections.

He had been cremated, his body returned yesterday in a golden urn the size of a coffee can, his name monogrammed across its shiny surface like a badge.

And so here she stood on that high hill, canister in hand. She had been given the privilege (_task,_ she moaned, or _duty_) of loosing the ashes into the sea. She had never done anything like this before, but she was the one everyone was looking to. His last official 'girlfriend.'

Curious, she shook it a little, hearing the rustle and clink of tiny pieces of tooth and bone.

"Damn you," she moaned, as she cracked the rubber on the jar and forced the lid open. She made a face, scrunched up her eyes and flung wide her arm, sending the particles lifting up, up, up on the wind.

She followed its path with her eyes as long as she could before the remnants of his body became one with the air. And still she stood a while longer, not ready to leave him or this place quite yet.

"Goodbye Walter," she whispered under the wind.

And she smiled.

For there was another task (_privilege,_ this time, she thought) that was demanding her attention, and she needed to leave. She would return, she promised him. She would return and she would always remember.

She wandered down the grassy path to the road where she'd parked the car. It made her smile, that car, and she had to admit that this was part of the thrill. She had grown to love the little thing in the weeks that she had been driving it. It was as smooth as it was quirky, just like its owner.

The Citroen DS.

She slipped in behind the wheel, stomped the clutch, put it in first, and rolled off the sandy dunes in the direction of the city.

"""""""""""""""""""""""

She'd found a classic rock station that was playing eighties hits and had cranked the tunes all the way in. He would die if he knew she was playing classic rock in his baby, and that made it all the more delightful. It was almost a two-hour trip from Marin County but she sang along to all of them, from _Blondie_ to _Aha,_ from Nina and her _99 Red Balloons_ to her long-time favourite, _More than Words_ by Extreme, and she was surprised at how quickly the lyrics came back to her. Before she knew it, she was rounding the loop into downtown Sacramento and, pulling into the parking lot of Sutter General Hospital.

It was a beautiful day. The heat wave had broken at last, just days after their ordeal on the island, and while Sacramento in summer was always hot, both mornings and nights were cooler now, and rain occasionally broke through in welcome relief.

As she slipped from the driver's seat, she reached in for the one thing he had asked for and pulled it out of the car.

A helium-filled balloon. Red.

She shook her head. At least he hadn't asked for 99 of them.

As she strolled out of the parking lot toward the front lobby, she spied him with a nurse waiting near the doors. He was wearing a light blue shirt, grey trousers and a grey plaid vest, open and casual. He was also in a wheelchair, and was chatting away like a schoolboy, smiling the smile that charmed cobras from their baskets and bees from their hives. The nurse, a tall leggy young thing, was blushing, laughing, tucking her hair behind her ear.

She shook her head again.

She was so glad he had lived.

"Hey," she called and he caught her eye and smiled like the sun.

"Ah, Lisbon," he sang. "I'd like you to meet Kandii. With a K."

"And two i's," said Kandii. She blushed again. "It's a joke. Two i's. Get it? Two _eyes." _

She batted her lashes for emphasis.

"I have a gun," said Lisbon.

"Now, now, Lisbon," said Jane, his blue eyes gleaming with the game. He had a scar on his cheek, under his left eye. "Her mother thought it would make her special."

"And I'm sure she is." Lisbon extended her hand. Kandii did a little curtsy and Lisbon wanted to gag. "So, Jane…what are you doing in a wheelchair?"

"Protocol," said Kandii. "All patients are escorted to the lobby in a wheelchair."

"Why?" asked Lisbon.

"Um…I…" Kandii cocked her head. "I really don't know."

"Protocol." Jane nodded, beaming.

"Yes," said Kandii. "Protocol. Is this your girlfriend?"

Lisbon's eyes flicked down to his left hand. No wedding ring.

She took a deep breath.

"I'm his boss," she said.

"Maybe," corrected Jane.

"Maybe? What do you mean 'maybe'?"

"Well, I haven't decided if I'm coming back or not."

She stared at him. "Of course you're coming back. Why wouldn't you come back?"

He shrugged.

"I brought you your balloon."

"That is _so _sweet," said Kandii.

"Ah. Can you hold on to it?"

"Why?"

He spread wide his hands. "I'm in a wheelchair."

Lisbon scowled at him.

Kandii was peering out at the parking lot.

"Is that your car?"

"Sweet, isn't she?"

"I can't drive stick."

"I'm sure you could find someone to teach you."

Kandii blushed again.

_Pick me_, pleaded the Glock. _Pick me._

"Can we go now?" she growled.

"Oh, sure." And with both hands, Jane pushed himself up from the chair, bounced a little on the soles of his feet and turned toward the young nurse. "Oh, wait…"

His hand reached up toward her hair, slipped in behind her ear, pulled out a coin and proudly held it up with two fingers.

Lisbon rolled her eyes but Kandii squealed.

"A bicentennial quarter! How did you get a bicentennial quarter? And it's Kansas! That's the one I need for my collection!" She cocked her head again. "Oh, Mr. Jane! How ever did you know?"

He turned and grinned at Lisbon.

"Magic."

They fell in step with one another as they headed through the parking lot, Lisbon still holding the red balloon, which was bobbing at the end of its tether. She slid him a sideways glance.

"So? How are you feeling?"

"Fine. A little stiff, if you must know. But Dr. Webb says I must take it easy or I might pull my stitches, and I'd really rather not. I have scars, Lisbon. Very big, scary ones. Mostly stitches but some staples. Nasty things, staples. I'd really rather not go through that again. He worked very hard to put me back together so I suppose I owe him a little consideration."

"Well that's a very rational approach."

"I'm a rational man, Lisbon."

"Not when it comes to doctors and hospitals..."

He grinned. "Meh. I've arrived at a place of peace, Lisbon. Of acceptance."

She smirked. "Really."

"Yes, really. Hospitals are simply stomping grounds for dead and mostly dead people. It puts things in a whole different perspective."

"Dead people, huh?"

"Yes. Speaking of which, how's Walter?"

"You tell me."

"I'm sure he's happy that you tossed his ashes, but a little disappointed. You didn't do it with much gusto, now did you? Very little drama and no angst at all. Honestly, he expected more."

"You still seeing dead people?"

But they had arrived at the Citroen and he threw up his hands. "Lisbon, I told you, no drive thru car washes! They wreak havoc with the paint!"

"Jane." She leaned over the roof of the car. Driver's side. "Are you still seeing dead people?"

"Hypothetically?"

"Sure. Whatever. Hypothetically."

He glanced in the window of the car, into the back seat. Made a face, looked back at her.

"Hypothetically, would that be a problem if I were?"

She rolled her eyes. "You're just going to have to admit it sooner or later, Jane. You're psychic."

"There are no such things as psychics."

"Denial is a symptom of self-delusion."

"It's also a river in Egypt. Lisbon, you are familiar with the psychiatric evaluation forms for officers and agents of the CBI, yeh?"

"Yes Jane, I'm familiar…"

"Which you yourself have undoubtedly had to fill out a time or two in your years with the CBI…"

"Yes, Jane…"

"The one that I passed with flying colours, by the way…"

"Wonderful…"

"Nowhere on the form does it ask if the person filling out the form sees dead people. Did you realize that?"

She smirked, causing her right cheek to dimple.

"It seems to be a non-issue for state employees. So, I figure, Don't Ask - Don't Tell. I may be crazy, but you know what Lisbon? It's working for me. Really. It's working."

"So it's easier for you to think of yourself as crazy, rather than psychic. Is that what you're saying?"

He blinked slowly at her, sighed as if speaking with a very young belligerent child.

"What I am saying, Lisbon, is the fact that I can still do the job, still devise cunning plans, still root out the bad guys with a minimum of fuss, manpower and public funds. I can still tell when someone's lying, or when someone's evading or even when someone's been playing classic 80s rock in my car. Maybe I can even do it better."

"Really."

"Yes." He looked around the parking lot, smoothed the front panels of the vest he was wearing. "Yes. I think I can do it better."

"So you _are _coming back then?"

"I didn't say that."

"What are you saying?"

"You are very possessive all of a sudden. Honestly. One kiss and you think you own me. I feel tawdry, Lisbon. Used."

"You are _so_ special. Do you want your balloon?"

"Ah, yes, that…" He stared at it a moment. It was bright and bobbing at the end of its tether. She had carried it from the car, into the lobby and back to the car again. He had wanted not to notice. He had wanted not to care.

"Do I need it?" he asked.

"You _asked_ me to get it for you, Jane…"

"I know…" He swallowed. "Can you keep it for me?"

She made a face. "No, I'm not going to keep it for you. Here. It's a balloon. Deal with it."

And she passed him the string.

He took it, stared up at it another long minute.

"It's a balloon," he said quietly.

"Yes, Jane. It's a balloon."

"It's only a balloon."

"Riiiight," she growled. "And how many dead people are in the car?"

"Hypothetically…?" He peered back in before straightening up. "Five. They're rather cramped back there."

"Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically cramped, yes."

"So…what are you gonna do, Jane?"

The question.

_What are you going to do?_

He looked at her, back up at the bobbing metaphor in his hand. Just a balloon. It was just a balloon. So with a deep breath and a wish for luck, he let it go. Watched it float up, up, up until it was a speck in the sky.

And then it was gone.

He held his breath as if expecting something, but nothing happened.

Nothing.

He smiled.

She shook her head. "Get in the car."

"Can I drive?"

"No." She got in the car, stomped the clutch. "Do you know how much that balloon cost me? How many stores I had to go to in downtown Sacramento to find it?"

"No idea whatsoever." He got in the car, winced as she stomped the clutch. "Gentle, please. She's a sensitive girl."

She sighed, rolled her eyes, and the little car rolled out of the parking lot.

"Are we going to stop in at the office? We could stop in at the office if you'd like. I have the feeling they're going to throw me a party. I do hope they throw me a party. JJ LaRoche sent me flowers. He likes _you,_ but he sent _me_ flowers. He's a very kind man, really. He has a little white dog, and I know you like dogs, but still. You kissed _me_, not _him,_ and that's got to mean something. I promise I won't feel threatened by your authority. Do you think there will be any Scotch at the party? Certainly not the good stuff, understandably. But I'm not picky. Hospital food is so terrible and there was no Scotch anywhere. Believe me, I looked. I'm really in the mood for a party…"

She hit the radio to drown him out, but immediately cursed her bad luck. She tried to turn it off but his hands were quicker and he stopped her to listen.

_Magic Man_ by Heart.

He smiled his most wicked smile at her before turning the volume up as high as it could go and the little car hit the downtown loop for Sacramento.

Fortunately, the hypothetical dead people in the back seat were quiet.

And above them, a red balloon floated quietly far and away into the **blue, blue** sky.

_The **End** of this Road._

_The **Beginning** of a New One…_

_(Author's Note: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all who came along with me for this roller-coaster ride. I don't normally write stories that 'change things', but a__fter the finale and Bruno Heller's 'game changer', I figured if he could do it, so could I! I've had a few people ask if I'm going to continue in this AUniverse, and I could - I've had an idea for a story that would happen hot on the heels of this - what do y'all think? Anyway, thanks again for indulging me in this cathartic story. Cheers to all! B-street)_


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